


Life is Strange: The Ashes Speak at Dusk

by RastapopulousMordley



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game), Life Is Strange 2 (Video Game), Life Is Strange: Before The Storm
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - No Storm in Arcadia Bay (Life is Strange), Arcadia Bay Ending (Life is Strange), Character Study, Crossover Pairings, Forensics, Game: Life is Strange (2015), Game: Life is Strange 2 (2018), Homicide Mystery, Multi, Multiverse, Original Character(s), Police, Post-Save Arcadia Bay Ending, Prophetic Visions, Road Trips, Time Travel, pricefield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 117,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22097860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RastapopulousMordley/pseuds/RastapopulousMordley
Summary: "Chloe - I can't make this choice!""No, Max... you're the only one who can."She was. And she did. But even though the walls and roads of Arcadia Bay never crumbled to her storm - even though the trees still breathed and the faces lost within the town learned to smile again - this lonely traveler might be more broken by it all than even she knows herself.Thirteen years since the day of the storm that never happened, Max Caulfield is a forensic lab technician in Seattle. Thirteen years since she let Chloe die, she's forgotten that cataclysmic October - memories of a town, of people, and how it was to feel time flow between her fingers like sand - all locked, buried and cast down to depths where they cannot hurt her. Amnesia might help her move on from the past - but how far can you move when you come home after work to find a corpse in your kitchen?"The Ashes Speak at Dusk" is set in a post-Sacrifice Chloe timeline, in 2026, with adult versions of LiS 1/2 characters exploring a story of murder and lost children, of brave people in a restless city, and of peculiar anomalies around them all, an impending resurgence of Max's buried past.
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price, Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Warren Graham
Comments: 38
Kudos: 42





	1. Strangers

"Weekly log, entry 151... this is Maxine Caulfield, October 11th, 2026, 2:43 AM." 

Rain drying against the window, tracks left by racing droplets coming to life against the rhythmic red traffic lights below. 

"The week has been... usual, nothing much to add." 

A desk drowned in darkness, the street lamp outside throwing a strip across it and onto the opposite wall; from what's visible, the papers on the desk are neatly stacked, the pens in their proper cup, the stapler aligned perfectly, the folders labelled and color-coded. A thin PC monitor is asleep, blinking in silence. 

"The new testimonies proved inadmissible for the McGrier case, but... we all saw that coming." 

Although it's too dark to see, there is a painting on the wall facing the only window in the office. It's a store-bought "abstract" piece; even through the pale darkness, its prominent white splotches - among other, moodier colors - leer across the room at her as she speaks, glaring back. 

A sigh. "I feel... I feel upset that the coffee machine hasn't been fixed yet, even though I... I submitted a com-plaint..." 

She stops, and shakes her head at what she just said. Has it really boiled down to this? No; she can do better. 

"*Ahem*... There might be some discord on the team I can't really isolate yet. That's... that's a new thing, yeah. Jun isn't being agreeable lately, he tried to hide his breakup but failed. I wonder if anyone else - noticed, they could give him advice. I've told him not to bring that to work. What else...?" 

She's leaning against the wall, and turns her face to the window. The outside is indecipherable. The haze of dew makes it a jumbled mess of neon shapes; some immobile, some fleeting. A dog was barking a few minutes prior, but it seems to have fallen asleep. Or maybe its owner just pulled it inside. She couldn't hear it anymore; why would a dog stop barking like that? Did it get run over? She would've heard that, too... it's odd to her, and she forgets the phone she's holding up to her mouth for a few minutes. 

"I should go home." 

It feels, for a brief moment, as though she hadn't said it at all. Someone else, something else, spoke through her and relinquished control as swiftly as it had come - but she knew that it was, simply, her common sense trying to claw its way to the surface. But she doesn't want to go home. What's possibly different there, after all? The presence of a bed? 

"And my PJ's." 

Yeah, those too. Not to mention leftover honey-lemon chicken in the fridge, and cotton slippers, and hot chocolate... but that's where the differences end, she thinks. 

"Oh... wait, there's something." She looks away from the window and into her phone's blazing screen. "I might be moving to Portland next month. New unit is opening in one of the offices there, and they need a... was it, a chief toxicologist? No, less specific... anyway, it seems like a good job. Probably pays well. I didn't ask Maoro the details. I probably will on Monday.”

And with that, she taps the blue square; the recording stops, and is labelled with its date of inception. Stored away. She gives the phone a lazy swipe with her thumb, and a long stack of older recordings fly across the screen, coming to a gentle stop far before the bottom of the list. There’s nothing more to say today. And without the white glow of the device now in her pocket, the room feels dark, the silence stifling. Now, she wants to go home. And she does. Leaving her office, locking the floor, taking the elevator down; the entire building is alight, but not a single inhabitant, except for herself. 

Her first step over the threshold brings a pleasant curtain of crisp, cool air, still lingering with moisture from recent rainfall. She zips up her jacket and makes her way to the parking lot; distant sounds of traffic, everlasting and steady, soothe her anxiety; the parking lot isn’t her favorite place, especially at this time of night. The only vehicle, a black Corolla, blinks twice as she unlocks it from her pocket, its two quaint honks splicing the wet silence surrounding the building. Maxine enters her car, slams the door shut. 

“ _... really was fantastic, that concert was! The new Firewalk album ‘Blueburn’ is set to release in December this year,but if you **just - can’t - wait** to hear more of them, and I’m with you on that, you can look out for their promo tour on…” _

The radio had turned on when she’d activated her car. It’s a comforting mechanism; the chatter and music in the vehicle, and the golden light flooding it, feels safe and warm. She reaches for her seatbelt; a resounding _click,_ the car humming subtly. Ready to roll out. 

“ _... what **did** you think of the new distortion pattern in Bleeding for Snakes? I - I totally feel - no, just hear me out - they could’ve gone easy on the reverb for that chorus-_

_-we know that’s a synthesized chorus, and really, like, I thought it was pretty awesome how-”_

A soft _tap_ ; Maxine switches the station using buttons on her steering wheel. Coming out from the office district and into a stream of traffic now; there are more cars, brighter lights. She’s careful to check her corners, and allows a car to pass before pulling into the main road. 

_“... this year’s game is gonna bring out **the - most -** dedicated fans to CL Field, for, uh - for the **final** game of the season before the Playoffs, this means we’ll be seeing the Colts this Sunday on the field, we saw how they held their own against-”_

Another tap to a different station; Maxine isn’t a fan of football. The sport puts her on edge, and she doesn’t really know why. She assumes it’s always been that way, although she can’t remember ever having an issue with football as a child, or even a teenager. 

_“_ _♪_ _... you fill up my seeeeeenses-_ _♪_ _”_

*Tap*. “God,” she hisses. 

She’s on the highway now. Gleaming metal arches swoop over her, other vehicles at constant speeds on the lanes flanking hers, orange orbs of light above casting wide sheets onto the asphalt, zooming over their windshields like bright bubbles reflected in black water. 

_“... so we’ve heard, but how would you describe a truly well-sustained “ice zone” in the space-time continuum, as you call it?”_

Her exit is coming; time to switch lanes. This used to be the bane of her driving prowess for years, until she’d suddenly gotten used to it, and she could never pinpoint the time or event that helped her get over it. 

“ _Well Rob, in layman’s terms - no offence-_

_Ha ha ha! None taken! I flunked high school chemistry for a reason. Be as lay as you want, man. I wanna hear it.”_

“ _Well, in essence, an ice zone would be a - a sort of, pocket - that can exist in four dimensions, where existence and reality as I describe it, in my book "Farther Planes", aren’t affected by the rules that govern our - our - our, well, life, basically, so in essence you’d have a zone where things don’t - where the uh, the rules of cause and effect - in the context of - in **every** context! In **all** contexts, have, essentially, been revoked…” _

*Tap*. Why were these people allowed on the radio at all? 

The road is thinning out again; she’s off the highway and driving through a lively entertainment district, with restaurants, shopping centers, a movie theatre. This new station is just static. Maxine is running out of patience, and considers simply turning the radio off - she doesn’t like the silence, so the consideration is moot, if nothing else. 

*Tap.* 

_“...-k you for joining us tonight, Moonlit Hymns 93.3, up and coming is a listener’s request, ‘Promise’, by Ben Howard. Enjoy.”_

This isn’t so bad. She likes it. She takes a right turn into a twisting, winding suburb, curling like a snake into the distance, rows and rows of homes shrouded in semi-darkness. The curtains are drawn and the cracks between them show a tranquil darkness, people sleeping, dreaming. Or perhaps someone was in bed, awake. The dark could deceive those on the outside. 

_“And meet me there,_

_Bundles of flowers, we wait through the hours,_

_Of cold...”_

What is this voice? This gentle frost that slows down the world around her? The car’s sound system is taking his high-grit vocal husk through her chest, bouncing around inside and filling her up, leaking out through the eyes and nose and ears; she sways slightly, and relaxes her foot on the accelerator. It’s unreasonably enchanting. Was it worth driving through? She considers parking the car to simply listen - but she needs to get home, she’s tired, and hungry, and she has a doctor’s appointment at eleven. Her building is in sight over the trees and slanted rooftops to her right. Another long curve, a right turn, and she’ll be home.

_“Winter,_

_shall howl at the walls,_

_tearing down doors_

_of time.”_

Home? 

“Not now.” 

_“Shelter, as we go.”_

She’s on a much more open road, flanked not by drab houses, but sprawling open greens. The sun is brilliant and the sky stretches to infinity, broken only by the low skyline of a fast-approaching town in the distance. Maxine feels a rush of excitement, a nervous twinge, a tumultuous cauldron of guilt bubbling over, and an insatiable need for the trip to end, for the destination to arrive. This exhilaration is difficult to contain. She’d be home soon… 

“Not. Now.” 

The brain always was a complex roommate. Dreaming of a completely different road, a different time, whilst driving at night wasn’t the best use of her synapses. Then again, she knows if she continues to entertain it, it won’t remain a dream for long. 

_“And promise me this,_

_You’ll wait for me only, scared of the lonely arms…”_

_Surface, far below these burn.”_

She completes the curve, and the low light on these streets bring out the gleam of the full moon through her windshield. It’s following her. Silent, stoic, like a round, obese sentinel. When was the last time she’d really looked at a full moon? She remembers being averse to it; something about the all-encompassing weight of it, she finds unnerving. But tonight, it’s different. Perhaps because she’s immeasurably tired, but she feels at peace with it now. She can look into it without feeling uneasy. It’s a new feeling, and she forgets to listen to the lyrics for a few seconds, as she slows down the car to keep her eyes on the moon for a little while longer. 

Just another right turn. Her building is in sight, and towering now. Unlike the suburban homes she passed, the building exterior is well-lit, albeit with darkened windows all the way up to the tenth floor. She drives down into the brightly-floodlit garage, parks her car carefully, using her rear camera to ensure proper alignment. She takes a few minutes to get it right, despite having trouble keeping her eyes open. What time is it…? She looks at the dashboard; 3:22 AM. A good time as any, to wait in the car for the song to finish. 

_“... who am I, darling to you?_

_Who am I?_

_I come alone here._

_I come alone here…”_

And the instruments fade out. Maxine is yet to unlatch her seatbelt. She briefly considers sleeping in the car. 

“ _That was Promise, by Ben Howard, thank you to Alex Pines for suggesting it. Certainly is an expe-”_

*Tap.* Silence now. The garage has its own cacophony to offer, if one listens closely enough. She eventually decides that sitting still any longer would lead to her passing out entirely; she cracks open the door, leaves the car behind her; it blinks twice and she pockets her key. 

Garage door, building entrance. Elevator. Seventh floor. Warm golden light, and stiff silence. She can no longer hold back the urge to collapse, but she fights it until her bed is in sight. Just a few more steps. 

Living alone isn’t so bad. She can come home whenever she wants and has no one to answer to. Then again, if someone were waiting for her at home, perhaps concerned and worried, then she wouldn’t have any excuse to stay out past 3 AM on a weekday. Can’t have everything. The simple act of putting her key in the slot and turning it is loud enough to crack the dense air in the hallway, although she can hear the muted music and laughter of a sitcom playing on someone’s TV behind her; she’s drained enough that it takes more physical effort than usual to complete the task. That, and she’s trying to be quiet, making it even slower. 

She can’t remember if her apartment door creaks. Does it creak? Only one way to find out - fuck, it creaks. Some grease would fix that, wouldn’t it? She’s been wanting to get around to it. Tomorrow. Some other time. She forgets to lock the door behind her. Kicks off her shoes and sheds her tattered old jacket, taking some care to fold it before it flops onto the kitchen counter. Just a little more, before blissful sleep. Wait - some water, perhaps? That seems like a good idea. The kitchen is to the left. Take a few steps back, and enter through the first open doorway. 

Turning the light on would be an assault to her eyes. She can navigate her own kitchen. She reaches for the sink, taking small steps, and her foot trips over something large and pliable. Maxine crashes onto the floor after a few failed skips with her other foot, and groans in pain, her left elbow having taken the brunt of the fall. 

“Ow - _FUCK_! What the shit-” 

She freezes. Against the dimly-illuminated kitchen wall, pale and pearly from the moonlight through her windows adjacent to it, there’s a lumpy mass on the floor. Large, hard to miss. She can make out a lean, smooth shoulder, dark skin gleaming in the little light it received, before disappearing into a thick shadow she was casting with her head. The blackened outline is humanoid, and bare; the shoulder moulds down into a neck, and on the other side, an arm and folded over the edge of a torso, which curves over buttocks and into a folded leg. Her terrified eyes follow the leg to its foot, and found it mere inches from her own. She yanks it away from the body, on instinct. Her chest is pounding, her face flushed and warm, fear paralyzing her; she slides up the second open door frame of the kitchen, cupping her elbow. Her eyes locked on the body. 

There’s a body in her kitchen. From what she can make out, it’s an adult man, naked - seemingly dead. Even in her current state, she makes a note of the lack of blood on her floor. In fact, there aren’t any signs of struggle, or a break-in - her front door was locked. Her eyes, now having adjusted to the near-darkness, can make out the shapes and shadows of the kitchen, all its appliances and tools; everything is in place. Not a hair out of sight. Which disappoints her, because she has nothing further to possibly explain the very large, very dead stranger on her kitchen floor. 

But is he dead? She has to check. Gingerly, cautiously, she pokes the body a few times with her foot. Nothing. A few more times, harder. No; just as still, just as lifeless, like an unreasonably realistic marionette, strings cut. It’s safe to assume that he’s dead. What to do now? Call someone - of course. Who? The police? 

She reaches for her phone with her uninjured arm; only upon letting go of her elbow does she realize just how much it hurts. She can’t even bend her arm. Is it broken? Fractured? It hurts like hell regardless. She needs to call for help. Gently now, pull out your phone; her jeans are tight and stiff, due to her posture on the floor. The phone refuses to come out of her suffocating pocket. She doesn’t have the strength to pull harder; she has to lean away from her leg, almost lie down on the floor - like the corpse in front of her - to loosen the taught fabric. Careful not to let her elbow touch the floor. There; the phone’s out. Low battery, but alive nonetheless. She dials 911. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

“I -” she stops. She hasn’t yet decided how to put it. It seems immeasurably difficult, and she can’t tell why. 

“Hello? Ma’am?” 

“There’s… there’s someone in - in m-my apartment. I think he’s dead.” 

Only upon speaking, on hearing the quiver in her own voice, does she understand just how terrified she is. 

The kitchen tap is dripping. 

* 

Bright lights in the ceiling. The apartment is awake, bustling; you’d think it was barely even close to dinner time. But it’s past 4 AM, and Maxine can’t move too much. She’s sitting on her couch, the only double-seater couch facing her TV; the kitchen has a small crowd in it, sounds of a camera clicking, gentle chatter. There’s a woman in uniform standing a few feet from her, facing the closed balcony door, her arms crossed. She’s looking out at whatever view the seventh floor would allow. Maxine has a headache; there’s a foul feeling in her stomach, an acrid taste in her mouth. She’s gripping her elbow for dear life. The sights and sounds around her feel dull, muted, distant; her eyes are dry, and blinking doesn’t help. She wants to splash water on her face, but the walk to the washroom seems utterly impossible. Standing up, being on her feet, feels unattainable. Sitting up is unbearable. She wants to fall to pieces. 

But there’s a man sitting in front of her, sitting on an upturned crate that she usually used as a footrest while watching Netflix. She can barely focus on his face, but his mouth is moving. He’s saying something that comes only as vastly distant noises. No, keep listening - yes, it’s getting clearer. She gives her elbow a gentle squeeze; the pain shoots up her arm and shoulder, snapping her awake ever so slightly. Now, what’s he saying? 

“... Miss Caulfield. Are you with me?” 

“Ye...yes.” 

His face is clearer now, as is the rest of him. A large man, broad shoulders, too large for what he’s sitting on. His overcoat drapes over him like a cloak as he rests his elbows on his knees, his head bowed to match Maxine’s eyes. Short black hair, and foreign, East Asian features. He looks concerned, worried, and when he speaks, his tone is gentle. It’s a little unexpected, she feels. 

“Is… is your elbow okay?” he asks. “You’ve been holding it since we got here. Did you hurt it?” 

“I fell.” 

The man turns over his shoulder. “Remy!” 

Another man, shorter and lankier, pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Yeah, boss?” 

“See if there’s an ice pack in the fridge. Or a bag of peas, or… something.” 

She’s a little taken aback, but can’t find the strength to say anything. The prospect of strangers going through her fridge isn’t pleasant, but she can’t even pretend to be bothered. 

“Is there someone you’d like to call?” he asks. She doesn’t understand the question, and when she does, she can’t answer it. Someone to call? At this hour? About a corpse in her apartment? 

“Parents…? Family?” He’s scanning her face for a reaction, but her reddening eyes, dark circles and fallen face, dishevelled hair, all scream tired. She blinks a few times in succession, but says nothing. She’s swaying slightly. 

“Here, boss.” The other man had walked over, and hands his superior a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes. “All I could make, she doesn’t have anything better.” 

“Here. Ma’am? For, uh… for your elbow.” 

He’s handing her the ice pack. She tenderly places her elbow on it; sharp, cold relief. Her arm is swollen, although it’s hard to tell at this point. The cold pulls her toward consciousness a few inches further. 

“I should-” Her throat too parched to speak. She clears it and tries again. “I should get some water… I need to wake up. Maybe splash some… water…” 

No; she needed to _drink_ some water, but the kitchen was blocked. She’s have to make do with the washroom tap. But getting there is another task. 

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead, ma’am.” He stands up and offers his hand, albeit reluctantly. Maxine doesn’t take it. She forces her knees to take her weight; this shouldn’t be so hard. She’s only a little sleep-deprived. Can’t use her arms to support herself; the ice pack is too comforting to put down. Some forward momentum from rocking her torso, and she’s on her feet. There - nothing to it. 

She turns her head toward the back of the apartment, where the bedroom and washroom is, and a powerful dizziness eclipses her, a curtain of black spilling over her eyes; the ice pack is gone, her elbow is throbbing, her head is about to split open with pain - and the last thing she feels is the dim thud of her skull hitting hard wood. It’s all over now, no more pain, no more tiredness; she is nothing, and she’s comfortable. 

*

“Maxine’s a treasured colleague, Ray. I - Hell, I’ll vouch for her. There’s no way.” 

“Vic, I understand, but we need to rule out the possibility… I’ll need you to work with me on this.” 

The Asian policeman, Ray, is standing under fluorescent lamps; a gleaming hallway, tiled floors, nurses walking past him, an old man in a stretcher parked by the opposite wall. Before him stands a man of equal stature, if not larger. A well-aged Caribbean face, shaved head and trimmed beard, white curls creeping around the edges. Drooping shoulders and a lazy frame, but Vincent Maoro’s eyes are as sharp as the policeman’s. 

“Did you get an ID on the body?” he asks. They’re both leaning on the wall; they’ve been standing there for quite some time. Both holding empty coffee cups, large. Ray shakes his head, looking down at the cold dregs running around the bottom edge of his cup. He’s twirling it in his hand, making drops of coffee chase each other in circles. 

“Nothing. Although it’s only been a few hours, but usually it doesn’t… take longer than that… unless he’s not local.” 

“No sign of forced entry, no clothes, no struggle…” Maoro voices the abnormal circumstances they’d all been mulling over the last few hours. “And no evident cause of death either. Guess the autopsy report’ll be our solace.” 

Ray snorts, a grin ghosting over his face. “Solace? Never heard anyone say that.” 

“Really? Never?” 

“Never, ever.” 

“Haven’t heard ‘never ever’ used either.” 

Low-energy chortling. 

The hospital always reeked of death, but today, Ray isn’t thinking about that. He’s keeping too close an eye on the stale coffee lining the bottom of his cup, making it roll and splash into the thin paper fold line. This incident is too odd to even consider. He’d encountered something like it before, years ago, when a woman was found dead, naked, in someone’s apartment in the dead of night; sounds identical as a blurb, but this woman’s throat was slit, and the floor was red. 

Not to mention, the culprit was caught at the airport, and confessed to killing her mere seconds into questioning. Not a particularly memorable case. Here, it was necessary that Maxine Caulfield be questioned… a corpse in her apartment, with her being the only resident and no eyewitnesses to confirm her time of arrival… 

But he doesn’t feel the same way about her, as he does with the usual suspects. Yes, she’s an investigator herself - she’s had a prolific career in Seattle, specializing in a few forensic focuses. A good reputation, well-behaved, nothing but compliments from her peers - hell, even a clean driving record. A woman in her thirties couldn’t be cleaner, especially in a profession like this. But even beyond that, she seems strangely disconnected from all this - as though she were neither innocent nor guilty, but an indescribable third concept, some surreal state of being that stood outside the realm of functioning life. He doesn’t feel like suspecting her, or even questioning her. He doesn’t want to be near her. It isn’t fear, or contempt; it’s an odd sense of purity that he doesn’t want to interact with, lest it be tarnished. Like a room in a museum, so vastly different from the outside, so clean and untouched, that anyone wearing dirty shoes and crossing the threshold would shatter its presence. 

It’s a juvenile reaction. Overly-imaginative first impression. No one is pure. No one is holy, or untouchable. Caulfield might be uncommon, but she’s far from exceptional. Definitely not in the eyes of the law. He feels a sudden surge of anger at himself for even entertaining these ideas. Clearly too tired. Definitely need to wake the fuck up, and stop being a stupid romantic. 

“I’m gonna get another coffee, you want one?” he asks his companion, who’s casually scrolling on his phone. 

“I’ll come with you. Need to stretch my legs anyway.” 

And they both begin a walk. There’s a baby crying somewhere; they pass rooms with people in beds, some groaning, others talking quietly with their friends, family, their doctors and nurses… hospital staff are stiff in their gait and rigid in their gaze. Their movement is a far cry from the lazy swagger that Ray and Maoro have adopted. There are windows in the nearest waiting room, people anxious to be called for tests and checkups. Brilliant golden light falls in strips over faded blue carpet, hiding some obviously horrid tile choices. Ray catches a glimpse of an old man sitting against the window, his wispy white hair blazing like strands of hot fire against the stark sunlight. Maoro’s reading the faces of those waiting indefinitely for a doctor to take them in; are they scared? Impatient? Worried? Or angry? So many combinations… 

“So what’s it like? Working with Caulfield.” 

Maoro’s a little surprised at Ray’s curiosity; he isn’t usually one for showing interest in people beyond their practical use, if any. Or perhaps this was a veiled version of just that. He didn’t mind, regardless. 

“Uh… it’s, good, she’s very effective.” 

“I did look her up after we admitted her. She’s impressive.” 

Maoro’s not hiding his assumptions any more. “What’s got you so curious about our Maxine?” 

“I dunno.” Ray misses the obvious jab by a wide mile. “She seems… odd.” 

“Odd.”

“Yeah.” 

They’re in a second hallway now, leading to the elevator, down to the cafeteria. “I’ll tell you this,” says Maoro, “she’s not the best at keeping friends. She’s kind, but she’s... I can’t really say, either. Distant. Unattached.” 

That’s exactly the impression Ray was playing with in his head; Maoro confirming it made him a bit more uneasy. 

“Unattached… like a sociopath?” 

“If you’re trying to get me to say that I think she killed someone, you’re wasting time, Ray.” Maoro doesn’t like to take offense or get personal, but there’s an icy edge to his voice now that he can’t dull down. “I don’t believe Maxine’s killed anyone. And that’s the end of that.” 

“Just doing my job, Vic.” 

They’re by the elevator now, and Maoro stabs the button with a little too much force. There’s a woman waiting with them; a portly lady with a bejeweled handbag, a powder-blue sweater that seemed to let off its own light, and a pair of large, butterfly-esque sunglasses with purple rims. She’s looking at them, unabashedly blatant. Maoro thinks she’s a bit doddery. Ray silently agrees, and they both decide to look at each other instead. 

“I know you are… I just don’t like this whole thing. And this is the last thing she needs right now. Doesn’t help that it’s the weekend. My sister’s coming into town from Nevada tonight. Don’t think I’ll make dinner.” 

Ray sends him a sideways squint. “You have a sister in Nevada?” 

“She had to move there for work.” More bewilderment from Ray; Maoro has to clear it up. “She has a… different kind of job.” 

“Okay.” 

They’re both standing before an elevator whose doors seem sealed. The old woman hasn’t faltered her stare on them. Ray keeps glancing at her too, and eventually sends a quaky “How you doin’, ma’am”. She doesn’t even so much as grunt, and they both resume their stances. 

“Goes without saying,” says Maoro, “but don’t talk to anyone about my sister.” 

“Um… sure.”

“No, seriously, I’m not allowed to discuss-”

“I get it. Zipped lip. Relax.” 

“Sorry. How’s your dad doing?” 

“Good.”

“Good.” 

How an elevator could take this long and still redeem the title of a functional machine is anyone’s guess. And maybe it doesn’t help that the woman beside them has taken to picking her nose while she stares, as though the observation assists the act. A symbiotic relationship between Maoro, Ray, her finger and her nose; unbreakable. Potent. A bond that cycles between them infinitely, growing stronger with every excruciating minute. Maoro assumes she’s just utterly senile and lets it pass, but Ray has trouble keeping his eyes off the spectacle. 

“What’s her problem?” 

“Dunno. Don’t think about it.”

“Fucking Christ - should we take the stairs?”

“I think we should.” 

Another hallway to the left. A turn into a tiny cove in the wall; an exit door. The stairwell is dim and cold. Appropriate; neither of them expected anything else. Two floors down and into the lobby of the hospital. It’s livelier here; the glass dome near the entrance allows a generous wave of warm light. Cafeteria’s in sight. 

“You planning on staying?” Ray asks, as they make their way. 

“Of course.” 

“We don’t know when she’ll wake up. Aaklya’s already pushing for waking her up now.” 

“Tell your superior,” Maoro hisses, “that a patient will not be harassed while she recovers. That kind of mistreatment is punishable by law.” 

The cafeteria is busy. Bright, a little dusty, and a mangled smell of grease and fruit. There are people here; miserable, fat consumers, anxious, bone-thin tea drinkers, stragglers with nowhere else to be, and a few who looked genuinely hungry. The two men order their coffees from the McDonald’s to the left. Ray is about to pay, but Maoro doesn’t let him. 

“You got the last round.” 

But Ray isn’t listening. “Shit - where’s my - got it -” 

His phone; he pulls it out of his back pocket, and it’s vibrating.”Hello?” 

Maoro waits, watching Ray’s face closely. The cashier is counting his change for him. Ray looks up and holds the phone away from his face, by an inch. 

“Caulfield. She’s awake.” 

The coffees are left on the counter, and the cashier is yelling at them both, but they’re gone; like wisps of dust in the dense sunlight. 

*

“There you go darlin’... you had a nasty fall last night.” 

Maxine doesn’t stop until the glass is empty, and it’s not enough. Water, sweet, delicious, life-giving water. She can feel her own body waking up from the first gulp she took. There’s a woman standing next to her, in a pale blue uniform. At the foot of her bed is another woman; this one’s wearing a white coat. She smiles at Maxine, and it looks so obviously strained that she wonders why the doctor would even bother attempting it; it’s part of her job, she supposes. 

Only after handing the glass to the nurse does she notice the cast on her left arm. Feels the weight of the wrapping around her skull. It hurts to move her head; she isn’t remotely curious how bad her arm might be. That one’s staying as still as possible. The doctor’s holding a clipboard, and she opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off swiftly by the nurse. 

“I was tellin’ ol’ doctor Lissy here tha-ch’yoo a strong li’l ladeh! Hehe - Lissy - her name’s Alyssa, but I been here fifteen years, I see her walkin’ in bout six years ‘go, sweet li’l girl fresh outta college, lookin’ all terrified as shet! Hahaha-” 

Maxine would like another glass of water, but she’s not sure if it’s polite to interrupt. That, and she’s a bit entranced by the story. 

“-so I’m sayin ‘er, I says, ‘you look like you don’ wanna be here’, and she gettin’ all angry at me, goin’ ‘you don’ know me ladeh! I’m the toppa my class, imma own this hospital one day!’ Inn’ that right, Lissy!” 

Maxine carefully turns her face to look at the doctor, who’s a bit flustered, and muttering “never said that” while she checks something off her clipboard, which of course sends the nurse into another laughing fit. She finishes her list, looks up at Maxine; there’s that forced smile again. 

“Good morning, Max - can I call you Max?” 

“M… Maxine…” is all she can muster. But her strength’s coming back, and she knows she can talk more now. She clears her throat. “Just Maxine is fine… if that’s okay.” 

“Oh - sure! Maxine.” The woman is at her side now, checking her eyelids, her tongue, her pulse. “How… are… you… feeling, Maxine?”

“Little light-headed.” 

“That’s normal. You must be hungry. When did you last eat?” 

Come to think of it, she doesn’t remember the last time she ate. When was it? She didn’t eat anything when she came home last night - she didn’t have any dinner on her way back from the office. She didn’t eat anything while she stayed at the office doing some paperwork, many hours past closing… there was a cup of coffee involved at some point. No, her last meal was yesterday afternoon, around 4 PM; she’d had a late lunch. What was it? Turkey sandwich. No, two. Two sandwiches. It had been seventeen hours since she’d eaten. 

“Yesterday… afternoon. What time is it, doctor?” 

“It is... just past 9 AM.” She glances at the nurse on the other side of the bed, who nods quickly and walks away. Now, she’s checking Maxine’s IV bag. “Do you know what today’s date is, Maxine?” 

She’d forced herself to go into work yesterday, because it was the weekend; although, she does remember not minding it too much. She didn’t have much to do at home anyway. So, the weekend… and before she left, the Thunderbirds were playing live on TV somewhere - she only knew because she’s been scrolling Facebook for hours… it was a Saturday when she’d left for work. 

“I left home on Saturday… it was Sunday when I got back. Did I sleep through into Monday?” 

“Nope, you’re still in Sunday. You didn’t sleep long. The, uh - the policemen - I think, your colleagues? They brought you here a few hours ago…” 

She looks questioningly across the room, and Maxine follows her gaze to find a stranger sitting there. He’s in police uniform. He seems oddly familiar… where had she seen him before? Some time very recently… 

“Uh, no ma’am,” he pipes up, “we’re, uh - miss Caulfield is - we’re not colleagues.” 

“Oh.” The doctor doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but she makes nothing of it. “Now, _you_ , miss Caulfield… have not been taking care of yourself.”

“I just work a lot,” says Maxine, knowing full well what the doctor’s talking about. 

“You were dehydrated when they brought you in here. You should be kinder to your body, Maxine, you only get one…” 

And with that, memories of last night come crashing in, as though some makeshift barrier splitting at the seams had finally shattered. The tripping, her elbow, the human corpse in her apartment, the policemen, the ice bag, the man who brought it-

“Remy!” she exclaims, looking over at the man sitting with them. Both he and the doctor are quite taken aback. 

“Yes,” says he. 

“Your name’s Remy, right?” 

“Ye - yes, ma’am.” 

“I remember…” and her memories of fear, the terror she felt, leak in as well. “Oh, god… where - which hospital is this? I need to see Maoro - I need to call - am I a suspect? I have to testify -” 

“Max-Maxine!” the doctor places a firm hand on her shoulder. “You’re staying right where you are, d’you understand? You have a concussion, you need food and monitoring. Not to mention the broken arm?” 

“I feel fine, please, you don’t understand -” 

“Uh,” Remy chimes in, “Your boss… Vincent Maoro? He’s here. I called him. Well - I called the Lieutenant. They’re together. They should be here real soon.”

Maxine blinks, and leans back on her bed. “Lieutenant?” 

“Lieutenant Voyeres, he’s the, uh... acting supervisor for this case. For now.” 

Maxine’s about to ask for more details, but she realizes she can’t discuss this in front of the doctor; moreover, Remy’s presence in the room is telling. She’s definitely a suspect. The thought doesn’t surprise her, but the prospect of defending herself is not something she’ll enjoy. 

But - beyond that… what? Who? Why? Was anyone working on answering these questions, while she was asleep? 

The door to her room opens, and the nurse is back, this time with a tray. The simple concept of food burns away any inkling of rational thought, for she realizes just how ridiculously hungry she is. The case could wait. Everything could wait. 

“Here ya go, darlin’... eat up now. You need it.” 

The lid is lifted. There’s grilled chicken, quinoa, artichokes, potatoes, a bowl of soup and some bread. Maxine loses track of time for a few minutes. 

“You’re looking well.” 

Mouth full of food, fork wielded, she looks up to see Maoro standing at the doorway, with the same policeman she’d been speaking to the night before. 

“Oh-hi Waoro,” she manages. Struggling to gulp it down, so she can speak. Maoro chuckles and waves it off. 

“No, relax. Eat. I would’ve been here sooner, but the goddamn elevators here... oh, I suppose I should introduce you…”

“We’ve met,” the policeman says curtly. “Although, not formally I guess.” 

“This is Raymond Voyeres, he’s too important to introduce himself.” 

“Thank you Vic… Remy, did you call Aaklya?”

“Deputy’s on her way, boss.”

“Good…” Ray doesn’t quite know how to approach Maxine. He’s considering letting his supervisor do it in his stead, but that’s retreating from duty, for reasons he can’t define, and could he really allow that? 

Rhetorical. He won’t. She’s sitting on her bed, eating, occasionally glancing at him and everyone else in the room. The doctor doesn’t quite know what to do, she’s fidgeting and really doesn’t look like she belongs here at all. 

“You… had a pretty bad fall last night. How are you feeling?” Ray is testing the waters. _What a stupid question,_ he thinks. _She’s in a hospital. How the fuck do you think she feels?_

“I’m fine,” says Maxine coolly. “Thank you-” she sends a glance at Remy, “-for the ice pack. It really helped.” 

Vic spies a quick look at Maxine’s cast. He feels a light twinge in his own elbow, a pinprick, and flexes to get it out. 

“So - um - yes, the - the incident…” Vic clasps his hands together because he’s not sure where to put them. “Coroner’s still quiet, but I’d get an attorney if I were you.” 

Maxine figured as much. “I didn’t do anything,” she says bluntly, and takes another bite. 

Vic wanted to reply with “That’s what they all say,” but he could feel Maoro’s eyes digging into the back of his skull. 

Without looking at Remy or Maoro, he leaves the room. The door is left open and faint stirrings of activity outside waft in. Remy gets up to follow him, but thinks better of it; he takes to leaning on the wall, putting his chair between himself and Maoro, who’s burning holes into the floor with a pained stare. The nurse pokes her head through the door. She looks pissed. 

“This mean we can come back in now? Get back to my job, if y’all find that appeasable!?” 

She struts in and cleans up Maxine’s tray, checking the paraphernalia next to her bed. 

“Lissy got paged,” she says to Maxine, with a level of vocal emphasis one might expect in the delivery of a campaign slogan. “I’ll leddah know, detective hardass cleared out. She gon’ come see you real soon, Maximoo.” 

Maxine lets out a giggle. “Thanks - I’m sorry, I never asked your name.” 

“You call me Lydia. Not you two though -” she turns to point at Remy and Maoro, looking at them over the top of her glasses - “you boys gon’ call me Nurse. Never liked cops, bunch o’ arrogant - good thing you don’t hang with that sorta crowd Maxy.” 

Maoro’s look of dense indifference falls to that of mild amusement; she did in fact, hang with that sorta crowd. 

No sooner than a few seconds after Lydia exited her room, a woman in uniform walks in with wide strides, checking the number plate outside to make sure it was the right place. Remy stumbles into a bit of a half-salute, and Maoro stops leaning on the wall. Maxine, who was about to lie back on her pillow, strains herself to sit up longer; her head is hurting. Concussion. 

The woman doesn’t address anyone, and looks around vigorously, scanning the room and peeking into the hallway. Her movements and general conduct are energetic and strapping; she doesn’t seem to ever truly stop moving. 

“Where’s Ray?” she asks Remy. A curt, well-aged voice, thick and loud. 

“He, uh -” Remy clearly doesn’t have an answer, but he doesn’t need one. He receives a call from Ray. 

“Oh - that’s him, ma’am.” Takes the call. Ray’s voice, quick and heightened over the sounds of traffic and rain. “ _Remy! Tell Aaklya that I’m sick! Had to go home_ -” 

Remy doesn’t hear the rest of it; the phone’s in Aaklya’s hand now. Swift and precise in her movement, she’s now barking into the receiver at an unsuspecting Ray. 

“Voyeres, where the hell are you? What? You’re sick? Then take a Tylenol and get your ass- what? Are you _fucking kidding me_ , Lieutenant? Hello? Hell- son of a bitch.” 

Remy gets his phone back, and Maxine really needs to use the washroom. 

“I’m the Deputy. Aaklya Carne.” She gives Maxine a curt nod, hands on hips, all flustered. “Maoro -” she whips around at him, who stares back somewhat impassively, arms still crossed, “- can you come down to the office today at noon? We need to go over the Meyershide report and the judge gave us till Thursday.” 

Maoro gives a brisk nod. 

“Now - you, Caulfield,” she turns again, and Maxine’s a bit affronted by how much bolstered energy this woman seems to projectile-vomit at whoever happens to be in her line of sight; Maoro’s unaffected, but both Remy and Maxine can’t quite handle it. 

“You’ll have to stay in the city, until further notice… you can’t go back to your apartment for now, so find somewhere else to stay - and you’ll need to come down to the station whenever we need you. Got it?” 

Maxine nods. “Yeah. Can I work?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Maoro cuts in. “You can come back when you come back. Take a break for now.” 

He meant for it to be consoling, but the idea of taking a break seems to fall on Maxine like a bucket of cold water. She says nothing, regardless. 

Aaklya carries on. “Anyway, you should take it easy for now, I heard you like to ram through things but maybe that’s not a good idea.” And she taps herself on the head, like she’s indicating the bandages on Maxine’s skull, and she puts up an odd grin; oh lord, was that a joke? She tried to make a joke. I should smile, Max thinks. And so she does. 

“I’ll… be fine,” says Maxine, putting some pressure on her head to test the waters. “Just let me know if you need anything - and if you find out who it was or-” 

“We’ll be in touch,” Aaklya cuts her off. “As it turns out, I have to meet someone else in this hospital too… so I’ll be going. Maoro, a word outside.” 

Maoro gives Maxine a tiny nod and follows the Deputy, arms still crossed. Maxine can see them across the hall; he’s got both arms crossed, and she’s talking with one arm behind her back, the other in her pocket. It’s an odd stance, she’s never seen anyone stand like that before. Aaklya glances in Maxine’s direction a couple of times while they talk, but Maxine can’t hear a word they’re saying. Is it about her? Are they talking about how suspicious she looks in all this? 

“Stop being paranoid,” she mutters to herself, and leans back on her bed. Her phone is on her bedside table; someone even took the trouble of hooking up the charger. Who would do that? They would’ve had to find the charger in her house, and the phone in her jeans. Someone took the trouble. Couldn’t have been Maoro, could it? 

She decides to check her phone to take her mind off things. Six missed calls and two texts, all from the same contact. A number she knows well, a number not saved on her phone under any name. Why now? Did he find out about her accident? Did Maoro tell anyone? There would’ve been no time… And Maoro doesn’t know him at all. How did he know?

Maxine decides to fall asleep. Yes, sleep sounds incredible. The more, the better. This nightmare would end when she woke up. It would end.

*

_Verdict of the Weary_

_The sun condemns all the weary;_

_The worth of a tree is its – shadow!_

“Prescott!” Two sharp clangs on the open metal door pulls Nathan Prescott out of his pages. The tattered book in his hands is slammed shut on instinct. He springs to his feet.

“Visitor,” says the prison guard, leaning on the door frame. “Let’s go.”

Nathan doesn’t understand. He blinks, trying to process the word.

His cellmate snorts from the bunk above him. “Hah! A visitor for _you?_ That’s fuckin’ rich. What’d ye do, Nops?” The man leans over the edge of his bed to look down at Nathan. “Yeh been here over ten years, no visitor. Whoever it is, give ‘em a kiss from ol’ Hick. _Muah._ Eh? Hahaha!”

Nathan looks back at the guard. He just points at himself, eyebrows high, flabbergasted.

The guard nods, apparently sympathetic to his confusion. “Visitor. Never thought I’d see the day. Let’s go, come on.”

He leaves the book on his pillow and follows the guard through the polished railings and grilled stairwells of what has been his home for over a decade. Eyes to the floor, counting his steps. Twenty three… twenty seven… thirty one…

“Took you thirteen years to get someone to give a shit, eh, Nate?” the guard jeers from beside him. He says nothing. “Goddamn, I don’t ever remember you having a visitor… because I’m sure you’d tell me if I missed that, right, Nate?”

He nods quickly.

The visitors’ meeting place. It’s one hundred and eighty-seven steps from his cell. Good to know, Nathan thinks, and puts that information away, next to all the other useless calculations he’d amassed since his exile. They’re in a small room with chairs, phones and glass walls. He’s never been here. It’s not very well-lit, unlike the rest of the prison.

The guard motions to the empty chair at the far end of the room. The privacy walls make it so that Nathan can’t see who’s sitting on the other side of the wall. There are two other inmates here, talking to their visitors. Who’s here to see Nathan? Unfathomable. He considers for a moment, as he approaches his chair, that he may be dreaming. It does add up, after all – why would Nietzsche write a poem of only two lines, and why would it have so inconclusive a message? The worth of a tree is its shadow? Perhaps, yes – but what of it? The poem has to be longer… he’d find out when he woke up, Nathan reassures himself. Still, this was quite strange for a dream.

The figure seated across from him is unfamiliar, but wholly recognizable. Short, mousy, shoulder-length brown hair. Nathan’s head is spinning. Amassing any reassurance he’s held that he is not lucid, all of which he knows to be false, Nathan grabs the chair with a shaking hand and sits down, his eyes locked to the table, his mouth dry and forehead wet. With brisk glances, he chances a look at her again. Just to confirm his delusion. To validate that the person sitting here truly is who she looks like. He’s overwhelmed with a feeling of unfathomable horror and has the sudden urge to kick off his seat and run, run to his cell and lock the door and never come back out. He’s staring into the face of the world that rejected him, threw him where he belongs. What business did it have now, coming here to gaze upon his rotting soul? Why did it come here? And with that, came fury. _Why is she here?_ She has no right to look at him and burn him with his own reflection in her eyes; his damnation is private, who the fuck does she think she is? Well, says a surely voice in his head, she’s the only person who knew, in those tumultuous final days, the sheer extent of the chaos that had surrounded Blackwell. Like a force of nature she allowed the inferno to blaze around her, seemingly aware of every tremor of existence, as she spoke to him before his trial, before his incarceration. She’d said things that he didn’t remember now, but that had made him feel as though she weren’t real; weren’t human. Something more. Something he could only ever dream of becoming. That manifestation of immeasurable omniscience, which had allured and terrified him then, sat across from him today, looking astronomically normal. As though this were just another visit of theirs.

She picks up her phone, and waits for him to do the same. Reluctantly, he does. His terror is only matched by his curiosity. He puts it to his ear and hears a voice he’d never dreamed of hearing again.

“Hello, Nathan,” says Maxine Caulfield, her free hand resting on the table, a light blue turtleneck sweater pulled up to her wrists. He can’t speak. He doesn’t dare try. He’s afraid his voice might crack at the first attempt to vocalize any thought, that he might break down crying and never stop. Her voice sounds only slightly different than he remembers, in flashes. She looks older, but not by much. An impressive feat given their history. He sees her wearing glasses now. She didn’t before. Did she? She might have… he can’t confirm it. _Why the fuck are you here?_ He implores her, in silence. _Why have you come to see me in this state?_ She doesn’t belong here. Her very presence in this place makes his skin crawl.

“How are you?” she asks. No response. Nathan pushing his thumb in between his fingers, looking down at them. He tries to form an answer but all he can manage is to shake his head.

“You don’t look good,” says Maxine. Nathan’s jaw tightens. A part of him thinks, _you stupid bitch, I’m in fucking jail! Why would I look good?_ Another part of him wants to hug her and leave this place with her, somewhere they can talk like human beings. A luxury he’d never extended to her back then.

“I know this is… weird,” Maxine continues. Her eyes stay focused on Nathan while his dart around his immediate environment. “I know we’ve never… but I wanted to see you.”

 _Why?_ Nathan begs her to answer that without him asking.

“There’s a lot going on… I don’t really know how to – I can’t even talk about it here. I guess I just…”

She trails off, and Nathan musters the courage to glance at her. She’s looking away now, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. The longer she looks away, the easier it becomes for him to look at her. So long as her eyes don’t meet his. He notices even more little things, like how her hair has highlights that have faded with time, how she wears a vintage leather-strap watch that doesn’t have the time right. He wonders if she still likes photography. He wonders if he still does.

“Do–” his voice is unbearably dry. He clears his throat and looks away to avoid her swift gaze. “Yeah?” she asks, hopeful for a conversation. “Didn’t catch that. Do… what?”

“Do you… um…” he grips the phone, tight, praying for strength. He looks her in the eyes now. “Do you still… are you into – photography, still? At all?”

Maxine stares for a moment, and breathes a small laugh. “That’s… no, not really.”

“Wh-why… why aren’t – why aren’t you, like – you know, just wondering – you were good.” He blurts out this mess of a statement. She shakes her head. “No, I was trash. Polaroids… what a waste of time.”

Nathan wants to disagree, but decides against it. He can still smell the corruption of his own passion, wafting up from the grave he’d dug for his soul all those years ago. Too much of this talk and he might vomit.

“Well, actually…” Maxine breaks the silence. “That’s not totally true. I do still like it. I use my phone to take pictures. It’s just not like, some official thing. Just for me. You know?”

He does know. He doesn’t nod.

“Why do you ask?” she says.

“Um… just… making conversation?” he glares at the ceiling. “Because… you won’t say why… why you’re here.”

He’s hoping his tone isn’t cruel, but he doesn’t mind too much if it is. She shows up, and then gives no explanation? What is with that shit?

“Why I’m here,” she repeats, looking at something over Nathan’s shoulder. “I guess I just wanted to see how you were. If you were okay.”

Nathan wants to lunge at her and choke her to death. Why on earth would she care if he’s okay? After everything he’d done? Why is she treating him like anything other than the monster he knows he is? What kind of anomalous monster was _she?_

“I’m fine,” he manages through clenched teeth.

“How long until your sentence is up?” she asks, uncharacteristically forward. She looks like the question just dawned on her now, but he has the feeling this is the real reason why she came.

“Why?”

“Just – please, just tell me.”

“Fucking _why, Max?”_ he growls. Leans forward, one hand balled up in an angry fist, a finger jabbing the table as he speaks. “What the fuck are you even doing here? It’s been thirteen years. I don’t know you. I don’t know you people. This is where I am, that’s where you are. It’s over. So just _fuck off!”_

His raising voice attracts the attention of a guard. “HEY! Watch your mouth, Prescott,” the guard spits. “Keep it down.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Nathan curls back into his hunched self. His momentary flair vanished as quickly as it had come. He’s looking at the floor again. “Sorry…” he keeps whispering, shaking his head. “Sorry…”

Maxine looks on the verge of tears. “Nathan. Please. Just tell me–”

“Twenty-five years,” he states, looking up with dead eyes. “I got twenty-five, it’s been thirteen, do the math.”

He’s trying to read her face, but can’t tell if that number is more or less than what she’d expected. She bites her lip and nods, more to herself than him. “Twelve years… twenty-thirty eight… Thank you, Nathan.”

And she gets up to leave. He’s astounded. She can’t just leave like that. What the fuck is she doing? What kind of sick game is this? He’s about to yell at her to stay, but she stops and sits down immediately. The phone is still in her hand.

“Look…” she begins. “There’s going to be some – something strange is happening, I can’t prepare you for it but you’ll know when you see it. Just… stick around. Okay? Be safe.”

And she gets up again. “Wait!” Nathan calls, gripping the edge of the desk. “What’s going on, Max?”

She stands there, facing away, for what feels like a long time. One hand on her chair, the other holding the corded phone. She decides to look back at him, and slowly brings it to her ear. “I’m trying to fix this. I’m trying to fix it.”

“Fix what?” Nathan asks, horribly confused.

“Everything.”

And she yanks her hand off the chair, slams the phone back on its receiver and struts out before he can say any more. Gingerly, he puts it down as well.

“Up,” says the guard. “Let’s go.”

Nathan makes his way back to his cell in a daze. The daily count would be taking place soon, which means Hick would have to shut up for at least a few minutes. He greatly appreciates that. He needs some silence. He needs to be alone. What would he have to do to be alone? He needs to think. What on earth could she have meant?

He would be perfectly alone in solitary, he thinks. What if he gets into a brawl with the guard standing behind him? That’s enough to get him in the hole.

_Don’t be fucking stupid._

He enters his cell to see Hick just as he’d left him. Sits down on the bed while the guard shuts the door. “Hick. Get your ass on the chair for count.”

And with the slam comes silence. Hick bounces onto the floor and straddles the chair across from Nathan.

“Soooo?” he rasps. “Who was it? I’m fuckin’ dyin’ ta know, Nops! Talk to your old man! Was it yer folks?”

Nathan can’t hear him. He’s looking for the book he’d left on the pillow. It’s gone.

“Huh? Was it mom and dad?” Hick spreads a filthy grin. “Here ta see their li’l boy? No?”

Nathan lifts up the pillow. The covers. Checks under the bed.

“Was it a bitch? Huh? You got a bitch on the outside you never tell me ’bout? She hot?”

Nathan jumps up to look at Hick’s bed. Not there either.

“Hey!” Hick exclaims, finally taking notice. “The fuck you touchin’ my bed for?”

“Where’s my book?” Nathan asks quietly, infuriated.

“What book? I dunno no book–”

Three loud bangs on the door. They look up to see an officer glaring at them through the window. “No talking during count!” she bellows. “Sit the fuck down, Prescott!”

And he does, swiftly. They wait in stifled silence for a good five minutes before they assume the officers have cleared the floor. Nathan lowers his voice to a whisper.

“My book, the little blue one, where is it, Hick?” he asks, his voice quivering.

Hick lets out a raspy chuckle. “I don’t fuckin’ read, Nops. I don’t know ’bout yer book. Oh!”

He points a finger at the wall behind him. “I saw Red Larry come in ’ere and takin’ somethin’ from yer bed. He took ya book. He took it.”

“Larry?” Nathan can’t make head or tail of it. “Larry? Why would Larry take my book? Why’s he even in my cell? You didn’t say nothing?”

“I don’ fuck with Larry,” says Hick, shaking his head. “Not after what happen’ ta Nelson. You best not forget neitha, Nops, ye know what’s good for ya. Forget the book.”

But Nathan knows that’s impossible. He’s getting his book back. He needs to read that poem again. It made him feel confused, and he’s still confused. Even more so than when he’d read it. He needs answers.

*

The administrative assistant is typing away at high speeds, inputting names on a spreadsheet, when she hears the telltale squeaks of frantic feet on those freshly-mopped linoleum floors of the hospital. A burly man, unkempt beard and glasses askew, looking as if he hadn’t showered for days, comes up to her. She maintains composure and awaits the verbal assault.

“Hi, I’m here for a Max Caulfield – Maxine, Maxine Caulfield?”

“And may I know who you are, sir?”

“I’m her - brother,” he says, his eyes wide with impatience. “She was in some kind of accident? I’d like to see her, please.”

“Your name?”

*

“How’s Jun doing? … Yeah? Good. Look, the McGrier files are on my desk – yeah, but we’ll have to re-do those labs, the constable said something about inadmissible – oh, they told you too? Okay, we’re good, then… ugh, this is such a pain. I’ll be there soon. Tell Maoro I said hi. Thanks.”

Maxine puts down her phone and looks out the window. It’s a much nicer day today than it’s been this last week. Finally, no rain. And she’s stuck here in this room until the doctor says otherwise. It’s just a concussion. Why won’t they just let her go? Nothing some painkillers won’t fix. She needs to get back to work. She needs to clear up this bizarre thing.

Maoro’s been increasingly distant lately. She doesn’t like it. They won’t talk to her about the case. They won’t share any developments. She’s afraid they’re waiting for her to be discharged so she can be briefed. Arrested… for something she didn’t do. She sees no way out of this. The silence is deafening.

Her phone rings. She’s quick to reach for it – it’s Maoro. Relief. Maybe he would finally…

“Hi, Maoro! What’s – yeah? Oh… okay. I – no, I – yeah. Yes. Sure. Listen, are you, um – are you sure… I understand. I get it. No, it’s okay. Thanks. Bye.”

Leave of absence? Doesn’t sound unnatural in a case like this. She hangs up the phone and feels like chucking it across the room. Of course, she doesn’t. But what other venue of catharsis was there? Maybe a walk would help. She’d been in this bed all night. A morning walk would take her mind off things.

Maxine swings her legs off the bed and tests out her balance. It’s weak. Her head is heavy, and it hurts to turn her head. Slow. Steady. Turn yourself toward the door. It’s not even open – figures. She walks around the room for a bit to steady herself. It doesn’t help much, but she’s got the swing of how much movement is feasible now. There’s a mild feeling of nausea that she ignores. She knows it’s normal for a concussion, but it would mean she’d have to stay and “rest” even more, and the idea might bore her to death. To the door, then.

The door cracks open. Maxine stops. A nurse pokes her head inside and looks visibly frightened to see an empty bed, only to see Maxine standing next to it, her arms slightly raised for balance. The nurse swings the door open and walks in.

“You’re supposed to be resting, dear,” she says, guiding Maxine to the bed.

“No – I need a walk. I’m tired of resting. Can we please go for a walk?”

“In a bit. You have a visitor.”

“Visitor?”

“Your brother’s here to see you!”

“My-?” And Maxine looks over at the door, perplexed, to see a tall, drooping figure she hadn’t noticed. Seeing him causes her to sit down.

“I’ll get out of the way – use your buzzer if you feel any discomfort, or if you need to vomit, here’s the tray – let me know, okay?”

Maxine tries to nod, but can’t; she gives a faint “hmm” instead. The nurse steps out and leaves the door open.

“Hi,” says the man, stepping inside. Curly hair, a furious stubble, thick-rimmed glasses and a baggy overcoat over a shirt and jeans. He is as he’d always been.

“Hi, Warren.”

“You look… good,” says Warren, hesitant.

“I look terrible,” Maxine corrects. “And so do you. Have you showered?”

“No?” Warren doesn’t take kindly to her mothering. It’s been a while since she’d done that.

“You look it,” says Maxine, but her tone has no malice. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Well, after all the calls and texts you didn’t answer, I called your work. Found out. I was here yesterday too, but visiting hours were done, so…”

“Oh… I see.”

He gives her a pained expression. “What happened?”

“I, uh – I fell. Tripped.”

She looks away. Warren’s gaze is burning into her bruised skull. She wishes he’d stop that.

“Something you’re not telling me?” he asks.

“I’m not lying – I did fall over, you know.”

He moves closer to the bed, very slowly, afraid she might not like the proximity. She doesn’t mind at all. “You told them you’re my brother?”

“I had to,” he explains. “I know I look like shit. And if I said ‘ex-husband’ they might’ve not let me see you. And they have that ‘family only’ rule sometimes, I wasn’t sure if… this… was the time. So. Yeah…”

She looks away again, grinning. “We look nothing alike.”

“Well, I take after dad, you take after mom,” he says, smiling back. “Or maybe the other way around.”

And she laughs. It’s been a while since she’d laughed. She can’t remember when.

“Warren…”

“What won’t you tell me?” he says, walking over to her side of the bed. “What happened? You didn’t just fall.”

Maxine puts her arms around herself, head bowed. “There was a… a man… a dead man… in my apartment… I don’t know – I don’t know who it was… how he got there, I got home late and I didn’t see him in the dark and I tripped and they think I killed him–”

“Okay – okay, just breathe, okay?” Warren sits next to her and puts an arm around her. “It’s okay. You’re not going to jail because you didn’t kill anyone. Got it?”

“But what doesn’t – explain anything!” she gasps. Her eyes begin to sting. There’s a lump in her throat. “How did he – who would –?”

“It’s not… the only weird thing that happened recently,” says Warren quietly. “And I’m thinking it might be connected.”

“Connected to what?”

He takes a long, deep breath. This conversation isn’t going to be easy.

“Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. Are you – does it hurt? Concussion, looks like – do you need anything?”

“I have a nurse, Warren,” she forces a smile. “But thanks. I’m good.”

“You’re not. What, some guy is dead in your apartment? Where? Who was he?”

“He was in my kitchen. Naked. I don’t know who, never seen him.”

“He was naked?”

“Yeah! I don’t get it, and nobody’s talking to me, and it’s like they don’t trust me, and the police were here and they didn’t let Maoro talk to me, and I don’t know – I just… I feel weird.”

“Weird?” Warren hooks onto the word. He’s testing the waters, because what he has to say might change everything, but he knows it’s a conversation she isn’t ready for.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Something’s wrong. It’s like…”

She screws up her face and takes several deep breaths. Warren is afraid. She might pass out or something. He just sits with her, arms around her, and lets her collect herself. He doesn’t know what else to do. He wishes he did.

“It’s – like…” every word out of her mouth is forced. “Like… it reminds me… I don’t know.”

Warren’s heart sinks. It looked like she was making some progress. He might’ve even been able to talk to her about what he’d found. But he can’t. Not yet.

“Do you feel like the way you did… in Arcadia Bay, maybe?”

She blinks. Her eyebrows crossed. Blinks again. Looks at him, perplexed. “Arcadia Bay?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s Arcadia Bay?”

“Forget it – I got something mixed up. Don’t stress about it. You need rest.”

“I _don’t need rest!”_ she says, adamant. And tries to stand up again. Warren helps her up. “I need to get out of here. I need to go home. Figure out why I’m feeling so – so fucking – I don’t even know what to call it…”

And her face suddenly droops, like something’s dawned on her.

“What if I did do it?”

“Huh?” Warren, holding her arm to support her, can’t believe she’s saying this.

“What if I actually killed someone and this concussion made me forget? And this feeling is… I don’t know, guilt?”

“Max. Listen to yourself. Why would you kill someone?”

She says nothing. He gently turns her face toward him. “You didn’t do anything. You have nothing to worry about. Whatever this is, you’re gonna be fine, because you’re innocent, and you’re not alone, got it? You’re not alone. You have friends. You have me. We care about you.”

She smiles her stiff smile like she’d been doing, but she can’t keep it up. Seeing him here, after so long, she can’t keep up her smile. She’s not alone. You’re not alone, she tells herself. This will end. He’s here, he’s here in the flesh, and he’s holding you up, he’s real. You’re not alone. With every passing second, she lets her eyes water again, and finally, after an eternity of accepting what she expected herself to be able to handle, Max finally cries. Leans into Warren’s chest, resting on him, and he hugs her and kisses her head, terrified to see her like this. Quiet sobs turn to audible heaves. His shirt is wet and his face is too. He’s missed her too much.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”


	2. Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warren plans to surprise Max with a visit from an old friend. Maoro scratches thin ice on deep waters. Ray has an unexpected encounter.

_Click._ _Click. Click._ Three strong flashes orbit an elderly man splayed across bloody carpet. Dead.

"For private records... day is September 18th, 2026... it's, uh - Miriam, what is-? It's 2:44 pm - I'm sorry, my watch is dead. I'll start again..." 

Drawn curtains let in shafts of graying sun from the only open window in this cramped apartment. The photographer bouncing around the room resists the urge to point her lens in every direction. Decadent, ancient wood stands in every corner, cabinets and cupboards and old printed plates. A wall-mounted spoon collection with inclusions going back to before the Declaration of Independence gleam against the dim orange glow of a red-draped porcelain desk lamp - the only other source of light this man had, it seems. Shelves upon shelves of intricate hand-carved statues, trinkets, blown glassware and mysteriously empty picture frames leer at them from the shadows. There are Biblical dolls, tiny little houses, gleaming glass elephants and dolphins and coral reefs. The frames look handmade, expensive and well-dusted. 

"Ahem - yeah, for private records... day is September 18th, 2026... it's 2:46 pm. Surveying incident under file 223C, Jameson McGrier, age... 73, 5"11, male Caucasian, 130 pounds. Responding to... homi-suspected homicide-fuck, sorry. Sorry. Last time, I swear..." 

The room is unbearably small. There's a tiny bathroom with the door ajar, dim fluorescent tube flickering into the living room. They'd taken a look a few minutes ago. Nothing but stains and rust and ghastly signs of negligence. Jameson McGrier was no healthy man. He'd put more care into his useless trinkets than he did for himself. Outside, the centerpiece of the apartment is a dusty old armchair, which looks like it had once been bright yellow. It's facing one of those box television sets from the 1950s, with the convex little square screen and the panel of knobs, standing on stiff angled legs and bordered by wood panels. Static blares at a consistent hum. 

"You know this goes for about $500 these days?" says a gruff voice as he sprays the side of the TV with cyanoacrylate, hands gloved and face masked. "It's, like, from the 20s." 

"50s," the photographer says without looking up, clicking away at Jameson's agape maw. "That one might get you way more than $500." 

"Uh... yeah, 50s." 

A short, lean young man speaks into a shirt-clipped microphone with a cord dangling down into his pocket, as he types furiously on a tiny laptop perched on his forearm. "For. _Private_ records, the date, is September 18th, 2026, the time is 2:50 pm. We are surveying incident under file 223C, victim is Jameson McGrier. Age 73. 5"11. Male Caucasian. 130 pounds. Responding to suspected homicide. Call placed by neighbor Alan McGronski 32 minutes prior. Profile reference included in transcript, see annotation..."

 _Click. Click. Click._ Every inch of Jameson's body, his room and stains of blood, bent carpet and dislodged furniture, the broken teapot and the crumpled ashes of what seem to have been paper, piled in one corner, have been captured. Being christened with stark yellow evidence markers. The photographer stands up and bumps into a woman behind her, who is placing a new marker on top of a dusty wooden chest of drawers, topped with an embroidered lace napkin and two small vases holding artificial roses. There's a definitive bloody print striking off from the top of the chest and down the front. 

"Oh - sorry, Miriam! Did I mess it up?"

"It's okay," says Miriam, carefully placing the marker and turning to face the photographer. The room really is very small. They glance at each other and Miriam grins shyly before tiptoeing around her. The woman with the camera is now focused on what Miriam was marking - one of the drawers is ever so slightly open. _Click._

"How's the logbook coming, Jun?" says Miriam, stripping off her gloves and checking her phone. Jun looks up from his lightspeed typing and shoots a wide smile. "Oh, um - I didn't actually start yet - should I? Have? I just wanted to do a summary of the environment f-for - uh, just for my own comprehension."

Miriam shrugs. "The logbook is what we need. But I guess photos aren't done yet, neither is Malec, so... take your time." 

Jun nods vigorously and goes back to typing. "Two wounds visible on the chest... possibly stabs, unconfirmed... accumulated blood around mouth and nose, hints at physical altercation, unconfirmed..." 

"So what the hell is confirmed?" Malec whispers to Miriam as he scans a tiny brown book with a UV torch. "Not sure of anything, is he?" 

"So you’re saying he should jump to conclusions?" says Miriam, putting on a fresh pair of gloves. "He’s learning. It's what he's here to do." 

Malec snorts. "I never got to do 'internships' when I was starting out." 

"You might've needed them," Miriam sneers and waltzes away to check out the window sills before he can retort. The yellow police tape over at the apartment's entrance crumples as a large arm and leg squeeze through it, followed by the gruff stubbly head and faded green overcoat of Vincent Maoro. "Findings?" 

"Uh, plenty of prints, pretty lazy perpetrator," Malec begins. "Some signs of struggle. Doesn't look like anything's stolen. No weapon here, looks like stabs though." 

"And you?" the photographer asks, looking up from her camera, where she'd been scrolling through her fresh images. Maoro sighs and drops his arms with some kind of defeated finality. "McGronski's a fish. Won't talk - or doesn't have much to say. Hell, even he's not sure if he made the call. He'll definitely be coming down. Most of the other neighbors didn't hear or see a thing. Except this..." Maoro flicks a finger across the screen of his tablet. "Woman down at 203. Says she heard a 'suspicious shuffle of feet' around three hours ago." 

Malec and Miriam laugh and shake their heads at each other. “Do you want Maxine to do the interviews?” she jeers.

“Do you want to dust off your resume?” 

“I could try,” says Maxine, checking her watch. It’s broken. Probably got drenched in the sporadic rains. They've been increasing lately. “Um - does anyone have the time?” 

“Got somewhere to be?” Malec asks, inspecting a skinny grandfather clock. He’s trying to get under her skin as it’s the only way he knows how to make friends. It usually works, but he’s known Maxine for months, and she doesn’t crack. 

“Yeah,” says Max simply. Malec is a bit let down by her bluntness. “O-okay. Cool.” He slaps his thighs and rotates on spot to look at a stack of old newspapers on the floor. “New York… Times…” 

“It’s just past three,” Jun pipes in helpfully. She's relieved. 

“Thanks. I have time then. Do you want me to try the woman down the hall, Maoro?” 

He shrugs and hands her the tablet. “Be my guest. Her file is on here. Couldn’t get much out, but…” 

Tablet in hand and camera dangling from her neck, Maxine ducks through the tape over the door and into the dim, narrow, orange hallway. The carpet is a muddy, splotchy rouge and the walls need a good scrub; one of the ceiling lamps flicker at steady intervals. Fluorescent lamps were the only way this place could’ve looked worse. 203 is a few doors down to her left. She’s confident she can get the woman to say something if she knows anything at all. Maxine has generally been good at convincing people, but she’s not sure why. On her way down the hall, she glances at the file. At the name. 

Some mild discomfort. A tightness in her stomach. What is it? Is she claustrophobic? The hallway is pretty stuffy. No… this feels unpleasant. Distasteful. Awful. A sour taste in her mouth. She can only hear her breath getting erratic, and not much else. Was she passing out? _I should call for help._ She can’t find the strength. No sound. No wind in her lungs to speak. She claws at the air around her until she feels the wall; pulls herself to it and slides down. Sits on the floor and bows into her knees. Tries to steady her breathing. _Remember what to do… this is a panic attack. Is it?_

She grinds her feet into the ground. Drops the tablet and rubs her shoulders. Grips them powerfully. “Red wine… yellow sand… white plate… blue dress…” she’s whispering, trying to get it louder. “Red wine. Yellow sand. White plate. Blue dress.” 

Faint voices. A hand on her knee. Another on her shoulder, grazing her own fingers. Ignore them. They’ll ruin it. 

“Red wine… yellow sand… white plate… blue- blue dress…” 

“Maxine? _Maxine!?”_

“Red wine… yellow sand… white plate… blue dress-”

“MAX!” 

Eyes fly open; people. Some she knows, some she doesn’t. “Don’t crowd her,” Maoro’s voice bellows from behind Jun and Miriam, who were closest. They recoil away from her. Miriam’s hand is still on hers. 

“What’s wrong? Are you ok? Max?” Miriam looks close to an attack of her own. Maxine blinks and steadies her breathing, pushing down a nauseous swell and placing a hand on the wall behind her to get up. 

“Who is this?” says a short, balding man standing next to Maoro, who has climbed through the tape as well. Maxine can see him explaining it to the man. The man - it’s the coroner, she thinks. There are two others she doesn’t recognize, and the first responders on the scene have walked over as well. Quite the crowd for such a cramped hallway. Maxine is dying to breathe. She needs the air. 

“What happened?” Malec demands, visibly upset. She just shakes her head - she’s worried she might throw up if she speaks. Jun looks about the same. She just hands the tablet to Miriam. 

“You - go - do it…” she’s muttering, gesturing down the hall. Takes Miriam a while to catch on. She just buckles down and nods, her hand sliding off Maxine’s shoulder. Through the mess of limbs and heads, Maxine spots door 203 - it’s open, ajar, and a sliver of a face is peering through it, watching the commotion. The door slams shut when she makes eye contact. 

“Let’s go outside, hey, Max- Maxine?” Malec tries to get her attention. “You wanna step outside for a minute? Come on. Let’s get some air.” 

She nods quietly. Ignores his outstretched hand and stumbles through the tiny crowd. She can feel Maoro’s eyes on her, and everyone else’s too. Malec is behind her, unsure of whether he’s needed. She ignores the elevator and dives for the stairwell, fresh breath of creeping autumn air coming up from the floor below. There’s a narrow window letting in a single shaft of blazing sun that paints a thick stripe across the steps. A spray-painted signature blasted across the wall reads “MOTTERS” in swirly red-and-black lettering. One step, two, three - that’s enough. More than enough; she can’t. Sits down instead. Her breathing is better now. Malec doesn’t want to stand over her, so he sits next to her. 

“What was that? What happened?” 

She tries to brush it off. “Um… I - got dizzy…” 

The name on the tablet. Why would it make her feel this? Who’s name is it? Does she know the woman down at 203? The single eye peeking at her through the crack? 

“Dizzy. Okay…” Malec can’t tell if she’s lying. He just can’t get a read on this woman. It’s infuriating. “Did you… eat? Breakfast?” 

“No.”

“Well there’s your problem, you should get some food. You haven’t eaten at all today?”

“No - you’re right, that’s my problem. I’m gonna get something to eat. Can you tell Maoro-?” 

“Yeah, yeah! Don’t worry about it. Just, uh-” And he’s about to say “be careful”, but she’s already going down the stairs and he’s not sure if it’d be appropriate coming from him. So he swings the door open and walks back inside, leaving the cavernous stairwell and its unpainted walls empty and hollow once more. 

*

Jun knocks on the door to the lab with his head. Both hands are occupied. It’s opened by an amused Miriam. 

“You really don’t have to get us drinks,” she says, taking the tray of cups from him. “Go clean up.” 

“I wanted to!” Jun replies from the hand wash station. “I got you the tea you like.” 

“Do I?” she says under her breath as she sips the cup with her name on it. She’s never had this in her life. She wonders what gave him the idea. To be fair, it’s quite good. Hints of peach, flowery but not too sweet. She wants to ask poor old Jun what it is, but that would shatter his illusion that he knows what she likes. She’s torn. _Fuck it,_ she thinks. Enjoy the tea. 

“Where’s Maoro?” says Jun, pulling on gloves. “And the others?”

“Maxine is… no idea.” Shrugs. “Ask Malec when he comes out of the washroom. Boss is up in his office.” 

“Oh - I thought - dang!” Jun peels the gloves off. “Here, these two are for Malec… and Maxine… and this is… mine… I’ll take his up…” 

Miriam is visibly alarmed at the idea of Jun bringing Maoro coffee unannounced, but the boy is very fast when he wants to be. He’s gone. She glances at the drink he bought for himself: a violently purple, creamy beverage, with a swirl of caramel crowning the sumptuous top and a thick green straw sticking out of the dome. 

Malec comes strutting into the lab, pulling on gloves. “Did Jun bring drinks again?” 

“Apparently, this is my favorite tea,” says Miriam. “But honestly, it’s not bad.” 

“What’d he get me?” He comes over to inspect. It’s a milky hot drink with a swirl of caramel on it. 

“Shit, he knows!” Malec takes a hearty swig. “How does he know?” 

“He doesn’t,” she reassures. “You have a milkstache.” 

Jun sends out a flurry of big-smiled “hello”s and “good afternoon”s as he makes his way through the small, but bustling precinct office. A few rows of desks with paper-thin glowing PC screens, with their users running spreadsheets, inspecting field images, scrolling through 3D map renders and bloodstain simulations; administrators and officers going over scene logs, lab reports being prepared for sendoff, a corner with two men in hushed talks, a woman tapping her desk with nonchalant fingers, lemon-yellow painted nails stark against the aged wood that furnishes most of this floor. Jun’s curious eyes are drinking this in with glee. _Make the best of it,_ he reminds himself. He’s lucky to be here, having not even completed his second year. Take in everything. Make the best of it. 

Maoro’s office is a humble brown door with a wavy-glass window, bearing a print with his name in bold black letters (V. MAORO), and a hand-written “SERGEANT” taped beneath it. New stencils have yet to arrive. Jun can hear talking inside. Shifting shapes ripple across the glass. He knocks twice. 

“Come in.” 

The olden handle lets out a sumptuous set of clinks and squeaks, as do the hinges, revealing tiny Jun with a cup and a t-shirt and a smile to them, and two burly men with their coats draped over chairs, both looking as though they’d been caught drinking, to him. 

“This is for you,” he says. “Just what you like!”

“Oh… thank you, Jun,” says Maoro. “You can just… leave it here - come in, come in.” 

And he does, and sets the cup down on Maoro’s desk, and smiles at the other man in the room, who cracks a painful grin and nods. “Hello.”

“Hello.” 

A few seconds of atrocious silence, where they stare at each other. Maoro grabs the cup and toasts Jun. “Well, get back to it.” 

“Right, gotcha.” Jun flashes two thumbs-ups to both of them and scurries out, shutting the door behind him. 

“Not the best use of the internship program I’ve seen,” says the other man, staring at the shut door in awe. 

“We don’t make him bring us drinks. He insists.” 

“Is he any good?” 

“Stellar.” 

The man turns to face Maoro. “Alright, one last thing to discuss… Not the least, though. Heard you had an incident with an officer today in the field? Someone passing out, or something?” 

Maoro clicks his tongue and looks away. “Maxine Caulfield, she’s one of our lab technicians, also does photography for scenes. She had a… I don’t know, I guess, an, uh - an attack, of some kind?”

“Attack?” The man is concerned. Eyebrows crossed. 

“A panic attack, or a dizzy spell, or something like that. I haven’t checked with her on it yet.” 

The man pulls out his chair and sits down. Maoro follows suit. “Where is she now?” 

“Frankly, sir, I don’t know.” He doesn’t like not knowing, he doesn’t like that she vanished and that Malec let her, and he doesn’t like that she nearly passed out and didn’t tell him what happened, or why. Malec’s iterations are useless. 

“You don’t know? Why?”

“According to one of her colleagues, she went to get some fresh air, some food, I guess she hadn’t eaten yet… We informed her that we’re back from the scene, but she hasn't responded yet.” 

The man sighs, looking at the cup Jun left. “Not the tightest operation, Vic.” 

“I hope not. People shouldn’t feel micromanaged.” 

“Well… you’ve never been one to crack the whip and I respect that - but I’d expect a better grip on your comings and goings. Not that - not that you should, you know, be a _hawk!_ Or anything, but you know what I mean. Right?” 

“I’ve built a lot of trust with my people. Maxine, for sure. She’s very valued here. Very good at her job. Exceptional, in fact. I’m in talks about a promotion for her in Portland.” 

“Why are you getting rid of her if she’s that good?” the man laughs. Maoro doesn’t, so he sits forward. “Look, Vic… I’m not asking you to send me reports.”

“I can, if you’d like.” 

“No - but is there something you know about this, uh - Maxine Caulfield, that you’d be willing to share?” 

Maoro sighs now. He grabs the cup and pulls it over, opens the lid to inspect its contents, crosses his brow and covers it again. “Maxine is… well, she’s had - in the past, not ongoing - some health concerns. Nothing that would impede our work, it never has. That’s why I kept her on.” 

“I appreciate your honest, Vic,” the man says with a smile. “I looked up her file when I heard from Gommel about the passing out and the disappearance.” 

Maoro’s face turns to stone. “So you knew.” 

“I didn’t mean to offend you, sergeant.” 

“Not at all.” 

“I don’t recall the term, but she has, some… a mental - what was it, again?” The man puts on a look of inquisitive inquiry, with a twinge of anger in his eyes now. 

Maoro’s gaze is unfaltering. “She has dissociative amnesia.”

The man clicks his tongue and nods slowly. “Amnesia. So, what, she just - forgets?” 

“No, she doesn’t forget. She’s unable to remember certain things about her past. A few things, not everything. ‘Thematic’, is the term for it, I believe. I looked it up when she joined. It’s not a consistent-” 

“So what you’re telling me,” the man interrupts, “is that you have a mentally ill lab technician working cases for you, doing samples, going out in the field?” 

“She is not mentally ill, captain. She has a condition, yes. It doesn’t affect her work, it never has.” 

“Looks like it just did. You don’t even know where she is.” 

“I treat my officers as adults, I trust them to know their responsibilities and tend to them at their own pace. So long as it gets done, on time.” Maoro’s head barely moves as he speaks, his eyes fixed on the captain’s like talons on rats. “And it does. You’ve had no complaints.” 

“Until now,” the captain says slowly, glaring at Maoro, his head tilted and leaning posture stiff, one arm perched fist-forward on his knee, the other hand on his chin. “You’ve got interns running coffee for you and officers wandering in and out as they please, officers with amnesia handling casework, those are grounds for concern.” 

“I… believe I’ve explained myself sufficiently, captain.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“I’m saying I’ve nothing more to add here. If you’re looking for a reason to throttle my manpower, we can have that talk.” 

The captain laughs. “We’re not that under. Not yet. But…” he gets to his feet. “I’d be careful. Maybe take a look at how the underlings are treating their superiors. If anything with Caulfield happens again, we might need a permanent solution. Too much trust is not healthy, sergeant.” 

Maoro stands up as well, holding back his rage. “I’ll have the Hossley case pulled out for you, should be there by Monday. Any word from the 14th? About the vandalism?”

“Nada,” the captain shakes his head, buttoning up his coat. “I talked to Voyeres but he’s never too helpful. Oh, I’ll let Aaklya know about the, that - what was it? The Church thing? The event… you know. I don’t think we’ll need you to be there, unless you want to of course. But you’ll be in the loop. I should be too.” 

“You always are, captain.” 

“Enjoy the coffee.” He laughs and shakes Maoro’s hand. Grips the door handle and squeaks it open, steps out and pulls it shut behind him. Silence now. 

Maoro is in half a mind to chuck the coffee at the door. The captain is no one to talk as far as Maxine his concerned. She’s ten times the worker he is. His fury isn’t justified, either. Maoro knows that Captain Ramsey antagonizing him is just to get a rise out of him. Not the first time he’s done this. But he can’t abandon the precarious suspicion that Ramsey’s concerns about Maxine aren’t a facade. It wouldn’t be a personal decision. Except that it would. For him. That’s something he might not be able to let go. Ignorance is bliss, he reassures himself, and sips his coffee. It’s acrid; too sweet, with added cream. Is that hazelnut? It’s hazelnut syrup. Disgusting. Who told Jun he likes this? Doesn’t help that Jun got the largest available size. He chucks it in the trash, wishing the boy would’ve somehow known what he actually likes. He could use it right now. 

The sun is still strong today; no signs of a cooler evening. It’s hot in the office, even with his windows open. He has the only un-renovated room in the building. With their station occupying the first three floors of the Flyte building in downtown Seattle, he doesn’t have much to his taste in terms of a view; still, he thinks, it’s better than the labs downstairs. His office feels out of place, a temporal anomaly among the sleek and thin, matte and burnished; among swift software upgrades made with discreet clicks and tactile keys; among stiff, pressed and ironed youth wearing garbs of tomorrow before the day ends, in touch with a world lost within itself. Compared to what’s beyond Maoro’s door, his office stands as a stoic reminder of what was left in the dust, something which he prefers. Faded beige walls, the rusty radiator in the corner, the browning, small windows with splintery shutters and peeling paint and the carved wooden chairs flanking an ornate, heavy old desk. They all make him feel at home. The outer office does not. Neither does any other place, when he thinks about it. Sun beams light up two framed photographs on the opposite wall, hanging over his Master’s degree in criminology. One, in color, is a portly man with a gleaming bald head and crisp white beard, stark against his dark skin, smiling at the camera with upright shoulders. The other one, in faded black-and-white, is a younger man, black hair and clean-shaven, a more somber look with his police hat in his hand at his side, but a firm stance nonetheless. Two generations of law enforcement standing strong and sure behind him, helping him march through conversations like the one he’d just had. 

He takes a seat. Gives his mouse a tap, waking up a screen full to the brim with unread emails. It’s too hard on his eyes, but he doesn’t know how to turn the brightness down on this monitor. Not since he was given a mandatory hardware update along with the rest of the precinct. Let’s see these emails. _Might as fucking well._ Tedium takes its toll. 

_From: Mortheiser Inc. - Your Subscription Will Expire In 50 Days…_

_From: VALLAH M. - court date delay_

_From: Mary G. - Crisa meal plan chart meds cycle_

_From: Mary G. - Send these back signed tuesday LATEST_

_From: Voyeres R. - first draft (destroy it please)_

So much more to read, to do. He invests in a heavy, long sigh, leans back on his chair and closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing gently. A shower would be nice right now. 

The phone rings - a loud, deafening ring. His personal Blackberry is always set on vibrate. His office phone is a landline with too many buttons for him to explore. Groaning, Maoro answers. 

“Sargeant Maoro speaking. Ye- Crisa? Baby, you can’t call this number. Who - oh, my lord… hah! How’d you get my work number? You _can’t call this one!_ This is daddy’s busy number, it’s always busy! What’s that? Huh? Say what? You got a _what? First prize!?”_

A shape appears at his door, but doesn’t knock. He can see it. 

“Baby that’s wonderful! Did you go up on stage? Huh? Wow! You had a speech? Who taught you how to write a speech!? Oh-? Oh, you made it up? On spot? Little genius, goddamn, look at you! Lemme tell you what, I wanna know all about it when I get back home. But daddy’s gotta work right now, alright sweetheart? I’m - hey - I’m proud of you! I am! Be nice to Marleen. Love you. Love you. Alright. Alright! Bye, baby.” 

Hangs up with a big grin on his face, headache gone. He’s still wondering how she got his work number. The shape is still at his door. He recognizes the shape. Before she can knock, he calls her in. 

“It’s open.” 

Maxine opens it gingerly and walks in, holding a tiny lidded coffee cup. Maoro has to hide his sudden good mood. He leans back with arms crossed. 

“You didn’t think to answer my calls?” 

“My - phone was dead,” she says. “It’s been dead all morning. Forgot to charge it last night.” 

He’s not satisfied at all. She can tell. Especially when he goes quiet. 

She sits down, a determined look in her tired eyes. “I’m sorry. Really. I had a dizzy spell - because I skipped breakfast! I shouldn’t. But it’s just been a long few days… So I went out to get some food. What’d I miss?”

Maoro is still quiet. He can’t even be upset with her. He’s only frustrated. 

“I… got bagels for everyone,” she points out, as if to make amends. “Did you have breakfast?”

“No,” he says curtly. “But I didn’t pass out.” 

“I’m - sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

He leans forward. “I mean that I don’t like you lying to me.” 

She’s quiet. Her eyes go down to her cup. “I… had a panic attack.” 

He figured. “Why?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Maxine.” 

She’s visibly flustered. Starts looking around the room. Hands fidgeting. “I - it was the name… of that woman.”

“What woman?”

“The one who you said - the one in apartment, what was it? 302 or something…” 

“203.” He remembers. “What about her?”

“I think… her name…” 

“Her name gave you a panic attack?”

Maxine gets up. “I have to go for my appointment,” she says without looking at him. 

“Hey, wait, now,” he stops her. “Sorry. I won’t push it.” 

She sits down again. 

“What appointment?”

“My therapy - I had to have them moved from Wednesday to Friday. I sent you an email about it.”

“Oh, god, this-” he slaps the keyboard. “I can’t even get through half of this in a week. There are hundreds of these damn emails. Send me texts. Just text me. Or tell me in person, or call…”

“Alright.” 

“When’s your appointment?”

“In… twenty minutes.” 

Hearing of her therapy doesn’t mix well with the conversation he’d just had with Captain Ramsey. 

“You know I’m worried, right?” His tone shift is sudden. “That’s all. If people start asking questions about you… if you get in trouble, I might not be able to help. You get me?” 

“Who’s asking questions?” Maoro’s lip tightens. 

“No one. I’m saying someone might. So… if there’s something bothering you, if you - need to take a break, or… or to talk-”

“No breaks!” she cuts him off. “I - sorry, just… no breaks. Please.” 

“Okay. Got it. No breaks.” He leans back again and sighs. “What you missed? Let’s see… We cleaned up the scene, got here, Jun got me some abysmal goddamn coffee I’ve never had in my life and told me it’s just how I like it. He’s very bright.” 

She laughs. “He really is.” 

“Other than that, we’ve got… lab work. Lots of it. Gommel wants an update by tomorrow at noon. So… after your appointment, if you’re feeling up to it…”

“I’ll be back by 5:30.”

“Alright. Good. I need to check if I got any updates about your Portland position - which, I assume, you’re still up for?” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

“Maxine, just tell me if you’re not.” 

“I’m up for it. Honestly.” 

Not a satisfactory answer. But he takes it. “Alright… Let me see if I can forward you their last email… before I forget…” 

He blinks rapidly while scrolling and typing. She notices. 

“Does the light bother you?” 

“Yeah. Goddamn new tech, I just can’t work it.” 

She leans over his desk and pulls his keyboard toward her. Uses a function combination to bring down the luminosity. 

“Hold down this key… and tap this one to get it brighter, this one to be less bright.” 

“Wow.” She hands him the keyboard back. “You know, the old one I had used to have these - these buttons on the side of the screen, that’s how I did it, but this new one doesn’t have any… you saved me a lot of pain. Thanks.”

She smiles. “Well - I should go. There are bagels outside for everyone if you want them. Oh - here.” 

She hands him the cup she was holding. It wasn’t for her, he learns. It’s small, lidded. With a sleeve. He takes it gingerly. The sleeve has a logo of a joyful eel printed on it, one he’s quite fond of.

“I was at Moray’s. Anyway, I’ll… see you later. Sorry, again.” 

And she leaves him in silence again. The cup is warm. He takes the lid off and has a sip. It’s an espresso doubleshot topped off with steamed milk. She knew his favorite thing to order. It’s a fleeting memory, when he’d conducted Maxine’s interview years ago, in Moray’s Café off East Cherry and MLK. He’d ordered this. That may have been one of the few times she’d seen him get it. He can’t remember any other time they’d been in Moray’s together. The taste and smell pull him back there, the café, with its mature wooden floors and hand-painted décor, and odd choice of mascot that blended in seamlessly. Knowingly, but unknowingly, Maoro forgets to forward the Portland email to Maxine. Simply slips his mind. Could happen to anyone.

But as he drinks, there’s a nagging concern chewing away at him. He dials the lab below and puts it on speakerphone. 

“Hey, boss,” says Malec’s voice. 

“Get Miriam on the line, would you?”

“Uh - yeah. Sure.” 

Muffled voices. 

“Hi, Maoro.” 

“If you’re not too busy, come up to my office for a few minutes. Need to talk about something.”

“Something happen?”

“No, just need to go over a few things from today. When you can.”

“I’ll… come right now. That ok?”

“That’s fine.”

Miriam knocks a few minutes later. 

“Come in.” 

Maoro’s seated with his tablet in hand, reading intently as she sits down. “What’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about the woman you interviewed today,” Maoro begins. “But I don’t see anything on her file. Except for what I already had. Did you see her at all?” 

Miriam slaps her forehead, eyes wide. “Shit! I - Oh god, I forgot. I actually forgot. I’m so sorry. Just, Maxine was passing out and I got distracted-”

A raised hand stops her. “Relax. It’s fine. Just… don’t worry about it. Did you see Maxine?” 

“Yeah, on the way up. She said she’s leaving again. Are we even allowed to do that?” 

He grins. “Sometimes.” 

She’s not having the mood. “I can’t _fucking_ believe -” Slaps her knees. “You want me to go back? I’ll go back and do it right now. Here, gimme the-”

“Woah, woah!” He pulls it away as she claws for the tablet. “I said relax. You slipped up, it happens. Just don’t let it happen again.” 

She nods. 

“I’ll go do it,” says Maoro, getting up. “Just finish up and head home, no rush. And yeah, before I forget…” he leans over his keyboard, raises the brightness and does some quick typing. Clicking. “I just sent you Jun’s little ‘scene observations’, which he sent me. See if you can get anything out of them.” 

She laughs. “Do we really need those?” 

“Could be useful. Audio files are attached too. You get to hear two of him talk now.”

“I’ll just tell the real one to shut up,” she says, getting up too. ”He brought you coffee, right?” 

He sighs loudly. “Yes, yes he did. In front of Captain Ramsey.” 

Miriam covers a stifled giggle as Maoro folds up his coat to take along. “Did you like it, at least?” 

“No, it was trash. He thinks it’s my favorite thing.” 

She shakes her head and follows him out the door. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” 

“I’m sure we’ll find out.” 

*

“Hey, Aaklya…. I’m, uh - I’m not available - I’m a little down. Sick. I’m - I’m sick, I can’t come in. Tylenol - yeah, I’ll do that but I can’t go back to the hospital right now. Yeah, I’m sorry, there’s something - something I have - there’s something I have to do - hello? Hell- fuck it.” 

Raymond Voyeres pockets his phone after a violent scrub against his coat to wipe off the drops of rain he’d tried so hard to avoid. This gentle drizzle did little for his mood. His large frame sliced through an oncoming sidewalk crowd like butter, long legs taking him from one end of the street to the other, where he’d parked. Against the dim greys and blues of commuters, students, people with nowhere and somewhere to be, wearing shades of black and grey and outliers of stark red and yellow, Ray stuck out with his pale ochre trench coat and eyes lost in the horizon. He could’ve knocked someone over, and people around him realize this. Give him a wide, wide berth. This man has somewhere to be. 

But where? He’s only thinking about it now. The primary prerogative was to get away from Maxine Caulfield and her bizarre gaze that made his bones shiver. Answers remain in the unfathomable circumstances that brought them together. Or at least, that’s what he hopes. 

Ray strides past towering chrome pillars, artsy stone blocks and posh displays of select greens on harsh grey pavement. They mark entrances to menacing glass buildings, glistening lobbies blaring waves of gold and white light onto streets soon to be abandoned by a dim and grey Seattle sun. The hospital is a long way behind him now, but still in sight if he chooses to turn and look. He keeps his gaze on the road ahead, winding uphill on his right. Flecks of red and green up and down the road marking intersections and moving traffic are now more prominent. Car headlights and rear lights move like schools of fish along grey waters. Storefronts are gleaming. People’s faces light up as they get swallowed in their phones. A grey haze has drowned the city, where their resident star lights up a bleak blanket coating the heavens, but can’t quite get through. The resulting light is a strange afterglow, made more ethereal still by the foggy, misty rain haze. 

The parking lot is around the corner. He turns left, away from the main street and into a smaller road of bustling shops, convenience stores, restaurants and bicycle stands. Drenched bike seats gleam under street lamps, their owners sitting a few feet away, wolfing down steaming bowls of ramen, heads bowed and and chopsticks wielded. He walks past a wet window with a group of young men and women on the other side, huddled around a table. They’re talking and laughing. Their food is yet to arrive. He realizes how hungry he is, and contemplates going in. No. It could wait. There’s something else to see. 

He’s at the parking lot. Through the entrance. Down the elevator. Show your ticket. One click and two beeps. Door slams shut; the hum of the garage, gone. The smell of his car, welcoming. The rattle of his keys is crisp against the deafening, closed silence, as he shoves them in his pocket. A button, glowing blue, leers from behind the steering wheel. He places his right index on it and pushes down. A quick animation on his dash indicates an error. “CANNOT READ.” 

“Fuck…” His finger is still damp from the moist air outside. Gives it a good few wipes on his coat and tries again. Works this time; his print unlocks the vehicle, and a push of the button brings it whirring to life. His speakers begin blaring music, starting from when he’d left off earlier.  
  


_“-oliticians hide themselves away! They only started-”_

Off. Not in the mood. 

Ray pulls into the street to find the drizzle has become a reprehensible downpour. Wipers up. Once on the trail with everyone else, he taps a small button on his steering wheel. A small microphone icon pops up on the dash. 

“Call Freyja.”

_“Calling Freyja.”_

A few rings go by. “Yeah?” A husky, curt voice picks up. 

“Hey, listen, you still at the station?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’m on my way to Mads, need to have another look. Can you send me the ID database results?”

“Shouldn’t you have them already?”

“I don’t have them, I never got them.” 

“Shane was supposed to get them to you.”

“Oh, of course he - fuck Shane. Just send them over, okay? Now. I need them now.” 

“Don’t fucking take that tone with me, Ray.” 

“Hey, I just-” But, she hangs up. Excellent. He grinds along with bleeding traffic for a few more miles. Somewhere in between, he gets a text on his phone - what he assumes is Freyja’s email. Good.

Ray eventually pulls into the small, nearly-full parking lot of St. Maddison’s Hospital. It’s a small old building with ornate pillars and statues of angels perched across the front, arched windows and paved marble steps. Ray checks his phone to confirm that, yes, Freyja did send him the files. Along with a middle finger emoji gracing the subject line. Pocketing the device, he braves the watery tumult from his car to the building entrance, and he’s already soaked. He hates the fucking rain. The large wooden doors swing open and his shoes skid and squeak on the polished white floors of the lobby, the folds of his jeans sploshing cupped water down and out as he goes. 

“Hello, Mr. Voyeres.” A receptionist, hanging up a phone call, sits up straight to greet him. “Nice weather, huh?”

“Spectacular,” Ray hisses, wiping his hair out of his eyes. “Level One access?” 

“Sure thing, just need to see your clearance card,” she says cheerfully. 

“Oh - yeah… just… got it… here…” he’s giving himself a TSA pat-down looking for his wallet, but all that he gets is handfuls of moist coat. Not in the left pocket. Not in the right. Not in the back pockets. Breast pockets of his coat are empty. Is it in the car? Did he drop it on the walk from the car? No, he would’ve felt it… he would’ve seen it in the car, it’s not a large car… 

“You can also show me your driver’s license, I’ll try to match you,” the receptionist offers, a bit nervous. 

“No - where’s my - I can’t -” 

How could a wallet completely disappear? It made utterly no sense. When was the last time he used it? 

Try to remember, Ray. When did you pull it out last?

_“You got the last round.”_

The smell of bagels, silent shuffling, muted groups talking, moody stragglers… 

_“Caulfield. She’s awake.”_

Dust swirling in beams of rare sun on a rainy week… 

_“Sir! You left your coffee!”_

No, that’s not what the cashier said. Not what he yelled after them when they ran out to see Maxine. It’s merely what he thought it was. Ray can’t believe it. It’s been over an hour. 

_“Sir! You left your-”_

“… Wallet…”

It was on the counter when he’d pulled it out to pay. Maoro had declined and offered to pay instead. He’d then gotten a phone call. Sheer stupidity. 

He nods at the befuddled woman and skids and slides his way back out. Tumbles across the same path he’d taken to his car, frantically scanning the ground for any sign of wallet. None. Back to the other hospital it is. Maybe the employee had set it aside. He definitely had. He would’ve had to. Right? 

Ray tries not to speed in the rain. Tries to calm down. Makes note of all he had in that wallet. Cash, of course; his ID, his licenses, entry card, business cards, photograph… he reconsiders speeding. 

Turns a corner - road closed. The road he’d been on just a few minutes prior, on the call with Freyja, is closed. He sees flashing red and blue, and two cars in awkward stances, one with its front crushed in, the other with an obliterated rear. An ambulance is loading someone in. Fuck it - take the long way around. Turns into another street, forgetting his turn signal. 

He’s on Western Avenue, going up the side of Olympic Sculpture Park. Ray’s been here many times. The memories are fond. Locked away now. This park, other parks, museums, theaters, carnivals, Rio de Janeiro in just 2 weeks- 

“Fuck off,” he growls, speeding up. Grips the wheel tighter. Trees are whipping by his right. Nobody on the sidewalk. It’s strange. Even in rain, someone’s always out with an umbrella, a raincoat, doing their business. Especially in the late morning. But nobody today. No fool would be out bouncing around the city on a work day, in crazy rain, ignoring his duties. But here he is, Raymond Voyeres, facing penalties for his little meltdown when he gets back to work. He doesn’t mind. Aaklya can only be so stern. 

And he pulls up to a stoplight. It’s at the edge of the park boundary, where the modern entrance stands. Lush, wet shrubs flank the paved entrance, where a building of sleek glass and steel welcomes new explorers. Waiting for green, tapping the wheel in silence. Would music help his mood or make it worse? He checks the entrance again. Nobody there. Finally, a woman comes walking around the edge of the street going down his right. 

Ray registers that she has no umbrella. No raincoat. She’s open to the rain. Her arms spread out, face up and eyes closed, letting the sky bathe her. She didn’t even bother taking off her glasses. Her blue sweater, with its full sleeves and turtleneck, is getting entirely soaked. Is she crazy? He watches as she spins on the spot, giggles, trips and grabs herself before a face-first landing. She’s fun to watch. A bit insane, he thinks, but fun. Oddly familiar. How familiar? 

His body shivers. Not from the cold, or the dampness. The woman just spotted him staring at her. She composes herself and locks eyes with him. The same eyes he’d faced a while before. She’s here, standing, bandage-free, dancing in the rain. No concussion. No broken elbow. No hospital gown. He wants to say he’s dreaming, hallucinating, maybe he’s ill. Very, very ill. This couldn’t be. 

She tilts her head in curiosity. His look of horror is interesting to her. Who is this man? Why’s he looking so worried? Does he think she’s a lunatic? She has been dancing in the rain, after all. A reasonable conclusion. Maybe she should leave. She begins down the road on a normal walk, going past the park entrance and back down the road. 

She leaves Ray’s sight. He can’t have this. Ignoring the green light, the car honking behind him, the clothes on his back that haven’t even begun drying, he lunges out of his car and jogs over to the sidewalk. 

“HEY!” 

The woman turns to see him facing her down. A large man. A crazed face. And now she understands why. She’d figured nobody would see her in such heavy rain. She was wrong. 

“DON’T MOVE!” Ray yells, holding up a hand. 

“Hey, move your fucking car, man!” a young lad bellows at Ray from behind the steep, sleek windshield of a Lamborghini. 

“Don’t move!” Ray says to the woman again, more stable, moving closer to her. The woman doesn’t move. She’s standing still. Arms at her sides. His hand is raised up as he approaches. She raises her hand too. 

“Stop,” she says loudly. Ray can’t believe it. It’s her voice, too. 

“I - I just wanna talk,” he sputters through the sheets of rain between them.

“I don’t,” she says firmly. “Not interested. Leave me alone.” 

“Maxine!?” he bellows, exasperated. She’s quiet. Her hand is still up. 

“Your name’s Maxine?” he approaches again. “Maxine Caulfield? How are you here? I just saw you at-” 

“No.” 

“No, what?” 

“Leave me alone. Final warning.” 

Ray takes a breath. He understands he looks threatening. Doesn’t stop his approach. “Okay, look, I’m not gonna hurt you - I just need to know - how-?” 

She’s gone. He’s gone. The world is gone. And as soon as it had vanished, it’s back. Raymond Voyeres is in his car, turning into Western Avenue, forgetting his turn signal. He’s angry that he has to take a long route to get to his wallet. Can’t be helped. As he drives up the side of Olympic Sculpture Park, he notices a woman in a blue sweater, standing on the sidewalk and facing the park wall, away from the road. He can’t see her face. Just a glimpse of shoulder-length, damp hair. No umbrella, no raincoat. She looks lost. A strange sight, he thinks. Why’s she just standing there? He considers pulling over to ask if she needs help. But as he approaches the red light, he sees her walk further down the street and out of sight in his rear view. The road curves up behind him, and she’s soon gone at a steady pace. A gleaming wet Lamborghini pulls up behind him. It starts blaring the horn the second the light turns green, so Ray takes an extra few seconds to gather his thoughts before proceeding. 

He’s gonna have to park in the same place again. Run through this rain to the hospital. He doesn’t look forward to it. All for a wallet? Is it worth it? 

“Call Vic.”

_“Calling Vic.”_

Ring, ring, ring. “Ray? Where are you?”

“Hey, uh - I had to run for something. Hey, you still with Caulfield?” 

“No, I’m heading back home. Why?”

“Shit - no, I left my wallet at the McDonalds.”

“You… fucking moron.” 

“I was going to ask you to go down and grab it for me, but never mind. I’m going there anyway.” 

“Isn’t one of your men there? Remy?”

Ray slaps his steering wheel. “Right - he is. Sorry. Thanks.”

“Get some of that coffee, Ray,” says Maoro, laughing over the car speakers. “I’m hanging up now.”

“You still owe me a round.” And Ray hangs up first. “Call Remy.”

_“Calling Remy.”_

Maoro tosses his phone into the cupholder by his gear stick. The rain shows no sign of stopping. Lights are the only thing he can see for sure, amidst a soft wash of grey. Street lights. Car lamps. Storefronts. Building names. Street addresses. Bloated numbers. A massive building proudly boasts their unit number on a dense stone pillar: 2030. 

I suppose if someone’s really looking for unit 2030, that’ll be damn useful, Maoro thinks. It’s been a day he’d rather not have to go through again. He can only imagine how Maxine must feel. He doesn’t want to think about the scene at her apartment, after she’d been taken to the hospital. The body being taken out. The coroner’s audible bemusement. And on his day off, too. 

Maoro remembers taking note of Maxine’s apartment number. He’d taken note of everything he could. 703. Why did he remember it? He’s a detective. It’s his job to remember these details. A body was found in an apartment. Which apartment? 203. No, wait - fuck. 703. 703, Maoro nods and reassures himself as he turns a corner, although 203 is a number not too far estranged from the happenings of today. 

The woman who lived in 203, a few doors down from poor Jameson McGrier. That month-old incident seems years away now. 

“Who is it? What do you want?”

“Uh, hello ma’am - it’s Vincent Maoro, we spoke earlier today. Just wanted to speak with you again, if that’s alright.”

The door doesn’t open. “I already told you,” she says. “I heard a suspicious shuffle of-”

“-suspicious shuffle of feet, yes. I understand, but there’s something else I wanted to ask you.”

“What?”

Maoro sighs. “This would work a lot better if you’d open the door, ma’am. You’re not in trouble. I’m not coming in.” 

A good few seconds of silence. Maoro considers sending Miriam after all. But he was too curious about this himself. She might not understand. He hears a lock scrape, and the door cracks open, revealing the tenant. 

A young, portly woman. Probably in her twenties. It’s hard to tell. Short-cut black hair and thick-rimmed glasses. Wearing a black t-shirt, baggy PJs, slippers. The same getup as before; he’s not surprised, it’s only been a few hours. She’s got a cup of what looks like iced tea in one hand. With a straw in it. A metal straw. 

“Hello, Ms. Scott.” Maoro tries to smile. 

“Ew,” she comments. “Just Brooke.” 

He laughs. “Okay, Brooke…”

“Wait, how do you know my name!?” She’s in a sudden rage. It dies out in a second. “Oh yeah, I told you. Before.”

“Ye-yes, you did.” 

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, like I said, it’s Vincent Maoro. You can… call me…” and he shrugs and shakes his head, as he really doesn’t know what to suggest. 

“How about I don’t?” 

“I - that’s - okay. Sure.” He’s already regretting this. “I wanted to ask you… it’s not exactly about the incident with your neighbor. It might sound strange. But it’s purely out of concern. It’s about a colleague of mine. I don’t think you saw her. She was here earlier today with us. She’s-”

“You talking about Max?” Brooke cracks a small smile, her whole face lighting up a little. 

“Oh!” He didn’t expect this at all. “You know her?”

“We were in high school together.” 

“Were you… I’m sorry for, uh - being so forward - were you, close, at all?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, not really.”

Not the best answer he’d hoped for. He doesn’t know where to go from here. If they weren’t close, then why did seeing her name…?

“I saw her pass out in the hall,” says Brooke matter-of-factly. “The hell was that about?” 

“She had a-” and he stops. Maybe this information isn’t for this woman. Maybe Maxine had told him in confidence. 

“She had a dizzy spell. Not enough breakfast, apparently.” 

“Oh.” Brooke nods slowly. “Gotcha.” 

“Yeah.” 

They stand and stare at different things for a while. He’s not sure how to proceed. 

“Did you… come down here just to ask me that?” 

“I -” He pauses. Long breath. “Here’s the thing…” 

“Jesus, just come in,” she sighs and walks away into the bowels of her apartment, leaving the door open. He’s flabbergasted. Go in? He specifically didn’t plan on going in. But now here’s an open door. And so he does step inside. 

It’s about the same size as McGrier’s tiny flat, but it couldn’t look any more different. Lights everywhere. LED panels, strips, small novelty desktop lamps all flashing shades of blue, green, purple and red, fading into each other at periodic intervals. Walls have no pictures. No paintings. But covered in posters. Posters of some films he recognizes. Most of them, he doesn’t. Some of them don’t even look like movie posters. But whatever they are, there’s a lot. 

His eye is caught by the machine in the center of the living room, blocking the single window. It’s a massive rig of stacked devices, rows upon rows of blinking lights and thickets of wires, neatly tied and roped and angled in rows, jutting out from ports and seeping onto the floor, crawling away in every direction like snakes. He sees her go into what he assumes is her bedroom, a couple more steps and he can see why she went in. He watches in awe as she puts on a headset, covering her eyes and ears, and picks up two handheld controllers. There’s an immense screen before her, projecting a game of some kind. 

“Hey guys, I gotta go,” she says into the headset, waving her controller hands. “Some cop is here. I’m also no longer in the mood. This is such bullshit. Yeah, a cop. No I didn’t do anything, it’s about some dead guy. Yeah, my neighbor died. I didn’t know him. I don’t know but I heard feet earlier today. Yeah, like shuffling feet. I was brushing my teeth…” 

This goes on for some time. Maoro’s had sufficient time to explore the apartment from where he stands. He turns to leave. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Hey!”

Brooke is standing in her bedroom door frame, arms up in fury. “I quit my game for you! What do you want?”

“Oh - didn’t look like you were quitting.” 

“It’s a process!” 

“Of course.” He comes back in. “Could we…” Looks around for a couch. A chair. A bar stool. “...Sit down?” There is nowhere to sit. 

Brooke walks up and promptly sits cross-legged on the floor. She looks at him with an air of impatience. Gestures jerkily for him to follow suit. 

“Right. Of course.” 

And he slides down the opposite wall, onto the floor, leaning against it. He pulls up his tablet, but really, there’s nothing to put on there. What he wants to talk about is personal. More so than even he might know. 

Maoro pulls into his driveway, rainwater splashing onto the lawn from his wheels. Checks his phone. No calls. No texts. Sigh of relief. He tries not to think about Maxine. Or about his conversation with Brooke. Right now, someone’s waiting for him inside. And he’s positive she’s not in the best mood. 

*

“Hey! It’s Warren. How are you? … Me? I’m alright. I’m good. Been a while. How’s the group? I hear you guys are doing a - oh, is that right? That’s impressive. Hey, listen - I have some… well, not exactly bad news, more like - unpleasant news, but might be good news. Sorry - yeah. I got in touch with Max. Have you been…? No? Yeah, she keeps busy…” 

Warren’s car squeaks and squeals, rims missing, ripped leather seats. But it’s an old machine and it’s served him for years. He’s not one to forget that. The dinky matchbox rolls into the hospital parking garage. He’s straining his arm to reach for the ticket dispenser. 

“Ye - yeah, one sec - so, - fffuck! Sorry - got it. Yeah, sorry - trying to get the damn ticket. Anyway - ticket for parking. I’m at the hospital right now. Yeah, see, this is why it’s not exactly good news. Max was in… some kind of… accident…” 

He’s looking for a good spot to park. Can’t be too choosy with that. 

“Uh, no, she’s not - I mean, she has a concussion. And a broken arm. But she’s doing okay. They’re letting her leave today. I’m having her over for dinner tonight. You wanna come? It’ll make a good surprise. Cheer her up.” 

He hobbles out of the car, stuffing his wallet and keys into his pants and kicking the door closed. Two beeps from his keys to lock the rickety old thing. Making his way to the elevator now. 

“Fantastic! Yeah, six, seven, whenever. Up to you, I don’t care. Just let me know when you’re heading out. What? No, no, you don’t have to - oh, that actually sounds good. Bring that.” 

Elevator’s coming.

“I gotta go. See you tonight.” 

Excitement is bubbling in his belly. He can’t wait to get out of this metal box and see Maxine, take her back home. They’d discussed that she could stay at his place until everything was sorted. Not an easy conversation for either of them. But Warren had insisted, when she suggested a motel. The past is the past. It’s time to act like grown-ups and help each other. 

Doors slide open. He strides to the main lobby, where she said she’d be waiting. Unlike the day he’d visited, he’s cleaned up today. A fresh shave. Combed hair. Ironed shirt tucked into clean jeans. His good coat. Even polished his glasses. Be a grown-up, look like a grown-up. 

But she’s not here. The room is cavernous and welcoming. Wooden beams and greenery surround an open sitting and dining area. Cafes and small takeout joints surround the area. People are sitting, talking, crying, on frantic phone calls and engrossed in deep books. Sipping straws and pulling morsels off plastic forks. Sun beams down through the skylight. Another good day after a particularly nasty, rainy week. He’s looking around - is she in her room, still? Is she in the washroom, maybe? That’s probably it. He decides to take a seat and wait. 

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. He texts her. “I’m here. Where are you?” 

No answer. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Gives her a call. No answer. 

Five minutes. His leg is dancing. Did she leave? Did she ghost him with no rhyme or reason? Was she even real to begin with? Were his hopes too high? 

Enough is enough. Maybe she’s not ready. Maybe… she’s not able. Did something happen? A swelling pain in his stomach; he doesn’t like this idea. Decides to go up to Maxine’s room. He’s never been in a slower elevator in his life. Never walked faster. When he gets to her room, her security guard is gone, the door is wide open, and there’s a completely new person in there. Warren skids to a halt, both hands on the door frame, to witness a borderline prehistoric-looking woman in Maxine’s bed, surrounded by a small fleet of towering, muscle-bound men in turbans who shoot him daggers. He clears out as fast as he can and grabs the nearest passing nurse. 

“Hey - sorry, where’s the previous patient in this room?” 

She’s very busy. “I don’t know, sir. Ask - see the woman with the - over there - the black hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Ask her.” 

And so he does. 

“Maxine… Caulfield?” She’s perched on an unnecessarily-high chair, browsing a log of patients. “Yeah, yeah - she was seen by… Alyssa. Yeah. She was here. I saw her. Oh, she left - uh, this morning.” 

“Left?” Warren can’t believe this. “Alone? By herself?”

The nurse shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see for sure. But she did have some visitors earlier. Looked like police. It’s one of those cases.” 

“No, it’s not,” he says bluntly. 

“Well, I can’t help you, she’s checked out.” 

Warren calls her office. Maoro’s line. No answers. 

Elevator down, back to the lobby. He gets himself a soda. A large one. Doesn’t drink any of it - he needs a real drink. But it’d be a shame to break his clean streak over something like this. And so he sips his Coca Cola in silence, fuming. 

_Not even a text?_

He looks down at his pressed cuffs, tucked-in shirt, new socks. Feels like a clown. What was he expecting? This has always been their condition. This has been Max and Warren. Nothing new here. She’s always done this, hasn’t she? Ever since high school, even when they were married. He’d always been the one running behind. She always chased anything, and anyone, but him. Without apology. Just add it to the nails in their coffin, he thinks. He wonders how many more nails it can bear. After a week of visiting, talking, breaking their shells, they’re still where they’d always been. 

He decides to toss the soda. Maybe drive back home and pick up a bottle. Cancel dinner plans. Change out of these ridiculous clothes. Get back to his life. It was a decent break from everything, but it could hardly last. He’s impressed it lasted at all… He tries to look back a week ago, at his to-do list, before he’d tried to contact Max, before he’d discovered… 

He throws his cup away and makes a heads for the exit. Right next to a set of revolving doors. He can’t possibly stop now. He needs to share with Max what he’d learned. What had happened. The implications are astronomical. He can smell it. The outside brings with it a crisp kick of chilly wind, and the sun is being drowned once more. The rain wasn’t finished. Only a few days of respite. It would be back, and Warren feared that he knew why. He feared the rain to be a mere beginning. 

_Hey, sorry. Dinner’s cancelled. Max isn’t coming._

The text is glaring back at him as he melts into his couch. It’s a few hours later now. He’s got a bottle of rum he’s terrified to open. Too cowardly to pour it down the sink. He hasn’t sent the text yet. He’s hoping he doesn’t have to. Max did agree to dinner… maybe she’s show up later. Maybe. But what if she didn’t? He’d have invited an old friend for nothing. 

No, if nothing else, he would make her dinner instead. He’s been slaving over this food for a while now. All day today. Some of last night. Someone’s gotta eat it. He’s not eating by himself tonight. He deletes the text. Not all the way. He shouldn’t leave her in the dark. 

_Hey, sorry. Max isn’t coming. But you’re still invited for dinner if you want. I made lasagna._

Doesn’t sound needy, does it? Who cares, they’re friends. Still, he hesitates to send it. Looks at the door to his apartment, hoping for a knock, for Max standing there, blurting out an apology maybe, but here, nonetheless. 

He can’t decide. Drops his phone on the couch and decides to walk away from the rum. Into his bedroom, where he sits. No phone to distract him now. His mind really is on one thing. Warren tries to distract himself further. The deep blue walls of his room, old posters of metal bands and arrays of monitors, some on, some off, some with bouncing screensavers. Piles of notebooks. Papers, published works. Thick blocks of text, complex diagrams, maps and models litter the room in every imaginable medium, from hand-drawn and printed images to tiny models. Mostly, there are sketches and written notes pinned to his walls. One wall is near-plastered corner to corner with this stuff. Bit of an unhinged fanatic vibe, he thinks. Not the kind of bedroom you’d invite anyone into. A single bookshelf stuffed with volumes is only the tip of the iceberg of his collection. Most of it is digital now, but some works are too precious to upgrade. He roves over the ones he’s already read. Very few he’s yet to read - they have their own shelf. And his eyes fall to his bedside table, with the one book that started it all. Its title is simple. 

_2015_

A small, black, tattered journal. He reaches for it. Sweeps through it. The handwriting isn’t his - well, some of it is. Most of it is Maxine’s. The journal isn’t completed. A good chunk of blank pages near the end. There wasn’t anything left to recount. 

He could give himself today as a treat, he thinks. He can’t go back to the lab. He can’t go back to work. He needs to find a new job. Find a way to put all this behind him. The search is over. There’s nothing to go after. 

_There is. Remember why Max was in the hospital. Remember what happened._

No, no, no. It’s not worth it. Warren grunts, kicks off the bed and decides to watch a movie until his guests show up - if anyone does, at all. If not, he’ll eat by himself and go to bed. Ignores the rum. Picks up the remote on his couch and goes to turn on the screen mounted on the opposite wall. 

_Knock, knock, knock._

Butterflies. Is she here? No texts or calls from her. He knew she wouldn’t let him down. He walks over to the door and opens it to find Maxine. There she is. But… is she? 

His second’s elation is deflated. Something is wrong. Maxine doesn’t look like herself. Not just physically. Those eyes aren’t the same. This is not the same woman. 

“Max…?” 

She’s got highlights in her hair. It’s a different length than it was yesterday, when he’d met her in the hospital. Her clothes are things she would never, ever wear. A grey turtleneck sweater and a violent, blue windbreaker. She’s got her hood up, which she lowers. It’s definitely her. But is it? Her glasses on her face - what? Glasses? Since when? Never… 

Seeing her like this was strange. But stranger still was that look in her eyes. The look of someone he once knew. Someone he’d forgotten losing. He opens the door wider until there’s nothing between them. He wanted nothing between them. 

She’s scanning every inch of his face. Intent. Intense. She’s gripping herself with both hands. Trying to form words. 

“... Warren?” 

“Yeah?” It sounds like her. But is it? It simply can’t be. Who is this? 

“Yeah, it’s me. Max? What.. happened? Why do you look-?” 

But he can’t finish. She throws herself on him. She’s over the threshold. They both stumble into the apartment, her arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. She’s feeling him, gently, carefully, as though he’d shatter any moment. He can’t bring himself to hug her back. He doesn’t know who this is. 

“I found you,” she whispers. “You’re alive. Thank god… you’re alive. I missed you.”


	3. Water Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray's tiny mistake has unintended consequences. Warren's guest makes a few phone calls. Nathan steps in slippery mud.

A speck of dust on the counter. A dust bunny, even. Or is that a stain? A stain of what? Barbecue sauce? Coffee? The counter is impeccably smooth, and white, and there’s an imperfection he can’t get his eyes off of. The pale fluorescent lamps above throw it into sharp relief. His eyes focus in, drowning out the sounds of chatter, and chewing, and clattering trays and rustling paper. And two voices grow closer, louder, until a large hand waves in his field of view. He looks up with a few blinks. The sounds are back again, and so is his place in the universe. It was good while it lasted.

“Sorry – what can I get you?” His voice a mechanical singsong delivery, as he’s done a million times already.

“Two small coffees.”

“You got it.” He wants to fling the cash register across the restaurant and bolt. It’s an everyday reaction to a job as mundane as this. But he never does, of course. Too many downsides. Getting fired, for one. It’s probably illegal somehow, so the cops will be on his ass. And plus – these two customers in front of him are big guys. And they look like cops. No risks today. Just breathe, take a deep breath, and get them their coffee. The job pays the bills. All these miserable hospital folk are part of the package, he assures himself.

“That’s gonna be $4.50, total.”

They both reach for their pockets at once. One them shakes his head and goes, “You got the last round.” Ah, they’re friends. And they drink coffee in rounds. Who does that? What is this, a bar? What a couple of rubes. He turns to make their order, but his co-worker has already done it. Two small coffees on a tray.

“You’re welcome,” she sneers and walks away, winking. He wants to wink back. Can’t really find the enthusiasm for it. Settles for a smirk instead as she vanishes into the bowels of the service industry. Turns to give them their drinks and take their money – but they’re gone. What? Both of them are running out of the restaurant. His eyes zoom to the wallet on the counter.

“Hey! Sirs! S’cuse me! Hello? You left your wallet!”

But they left the door swinging behind them. Two coffees gone to waste. He puts the tray aside and picks up the wallet to give to his manager, in case they come back.

He’s grabbing the wallet. Frozen. His eyes dart around the restaurant – nobody cares. No one even looked up when he yelled. They’re all absorbed in their little worlds, munching on their little burgers, feeding off each others’ clinical misery. He pockets the wallet.

The girl comes back with a new stack of red trays. “Oh, what happened?” She spots the unsold drinks.

“No idea.” He takes half the stack off her and lines it up on the end of the counter. “They just kinda left.”

“That’s so weird. Like, why order if you’re not gonna drink?”

“I know, right…”

They finish re-setting the front display and a new customer has rolled up to the register, looking at them expectantly.

“Hey, can you take this one? I gotta use the washroom.” He can’t wait any longer. She nods. “Yeah. Sure. Hi! What can I get for you?”

“Uh, yeah, so like, is your sauce…?”

He stalks around the corner and into the catacombs of stainless steel and concrete walls. Dodges past a lanky employee hunched over, tending to fries. Averts his eyes when the manager glances at him. Turns another corner and gets a mouthful of the stale, frosty smell of a meat-stocked refrigerator. It’s wide open as he passes it. That’s odd – no one else is working today. Who could be in there? Did the manager forget to close it? Did his co-worker? Not his problem. He needs to use the washroom.

Gets in, shuts the door, lock is secure. Alright, let’s check it out. Anything of value? He pulls out the wallet. It’s old, tattered, faded. Not worth selling. What’s in it? Cash. Definitely. He pockets several twenties and fifties. The change can stay. What else? Credit card, hell yes. And –

He freezes. The ID window in his wallet has a sleek white-and-blue card with his face on it, looking up at the boy.

_SEATTLE POLICE DEPT._

_Raymond Voyeres_

_Lieutenant 14t_ _h_ _Division_

What fucking luck. The guy is actually a cop. No, no, not fucking with cops. He stuffs the cash and the credit card back in. Not fucking with cops. He would simply put the wallet back where he found it, and let his manager know. All’s well that ends well. Nobody would check the cameras because he’d have been a good employee who alerted his superior when something went wrong. But as he’s about to leave and give the wallet to his manger, something catches his eye.

In one of the slots is a small, white card. A characteristic red strip gleaming across the top. He’s seen this kind of thing before. Very familiar with them, in fact. He slides it out. There’s a mag strip on it, and on the other side, a title in small red text.

_St. Maddison: L1_

He knows exactly what this is. It’s borderline impossible that he’d stumble across one of these. He rubs his fingers across the smooth cut edge, over the stark printed letters, the jet black strip. Is this really what he knows it to be? What if it’s fake? What if it’s expired?

He knows how to find out. The question isn’t even valid. He knows where to go with it.

But… the man is police. What if he comes looking for it?

Of course he’ll come looking for it. And you’ll say you don’t know anything about no card. Isn’t that right?

But what if he pushes deeper? Finds out you stole it?

Stop being a fucking pussy and take it. You won’t get a chance like this again.

And with that settled, he puts the card in one pocket, and the wallet in the other. He doesn’t enjoy thinking too much. That momentary assurance is enough to keep him going. Heads out of the washroom and finds his manager serving a customer at the register. He waits patiently.

“Where were you?” The man demands, turning to see him. He’s a portly man with thick-rimmed glasses and a balding head, last remnants of hair spiked in a desperate reach for youth. Shirt tucked in tight, maximizing the event horizon of his pot belly. The quintessential manager. He’s very upset, which makes his face go red and renders him even more comical. “I can’t keep dealing with the lunch rushes for you.”

“Uh, sorry, had to pee. I’ll take over.” He’s careful to hide the wallet as he approaches the counter. Pulls it out and places it where he’d found it. “Hey, Marv?”

“What, Aaron?” the manager skids to a halt, clipboard in hand.

“Someone left their wallet here.”

Marv approaches him, perplexed. “Oh.” Takes the wallet and checks the ID inside. “Oh, wow.”

“You didn’t see it before?” Aaron is careful not to break eye contact.

“Guess I didn’t. Thanks. I’ll see if I can… find a… business card…” He’s rifling through the innards of the wallet. “You – you’re here until when?”

“I’m about done.”

“I thought so. Kay, before you go – help Kuldeep take out the O-rings on the soft serve. And set it up for sanitizing.”

This had to be a joke. Setting up alone would take over twenty minutes with their god-awful machine. Aaron’s shift is coming to a close. “I – that’s gonna take way too long, I’m done in like, five minutes.”

“Just help him out!” Marv is already walking away. “Just be quick, won’t take long! He needs your help, just do it.”

He’s fuming. The girl from before passes him with two bags and calls out their numbers. “273, 274?” And she says over her shoulder, “you OK?”

“Fine.” Aaron steps over to the ice cream machine and begins the dismantling process. “Kuldeep!”

No answer.

_“Ey, Kuldeep!”_

“Yeah, what?” the tall, lanky employee he’d passed earlier peeks around the corner.

“Marv said you gotta help me set up the machine.”

Kuldeep puts on a shocked face. “I – I gotta do nuggets. We’re literally out. I gotta do them now.”

And he zooms away before Aaron can answer. His jaw is tense and his breathing heavy. He grabs a white plastic bucket tucked under a prep table with a little too much vigor, smacking himself in the shin with it, and hissing under his breath. The girl behind him notices this.

“Aaron,” she starts, “you want me to help with–?”

“Excuse me!” A customer lumbers over with their tray. “The cheese didn’t melt on this one. It’s gotta be _between_ the patties? Right? Can you redo it? Now?”

Aaron shoots a glare at the customer as she takes it away with a robotic apology. The man, twice Aaron’s size, scoffs. “You got a problem, buddy?”

He looks back into the machine. _Don’t._ He’ll be out of here soon. Don’t make this take any longer. He holds a bucket to the array of nozzles and activates the wash cycle. Long, coiling sugary turds begin clearing out of the device. His shin is throbbing.

“Yeah, where’s your manager?” The customer is in a mood today. The boy looks like he’d be fun to mess around with. Serves them right for fucking up his order. “Excuse me, I’m talking to you?”

Not today. Any day but today. He wants to leave. The machine has only just cleared out. He won’t have to do any rinses, will he? “Setting up” just meant the initial clear-out of nozzles and prepping for the first rinse. Oh, wait – he has to take the rings out.

“This kid’s got a problem,” the customer says to someone else behind him. “I just want them to get my order right, and he’s giving me the stink-eye.”

The other person chuckles. His voice sounds even older than the first one. “Probably didn’t get to blow his boyfriend this morning. S’why he’s so angry.”

“Woah!” The other man exclaims and laughs. “Who said that? I don’t see ’em!”

Aaron lets the bucket crash to the floor, decrepit cream spilling out. The machine is still spluttering. He walks up to the counter. “Yeah, who said that?” His voice is higher than he’d expected. Jaw is shaking.

A dense boulder of a man steps forward with both hands in his jacket pockets. He towers over Aaron. “I did. You got a problem with that, faggot?”

Aaron scans the man’s puffy, red face. Bald. Hidden neck tattoo. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” The man coils around to glance at his friend, amused. “You want my name? Why do you want my name?”

“What’s your name?” Aaron repeats.

“I’m not giving you my fucking name. Call your manager. I wanna talk to your manager.”

Aaron leans toward him, both hands over the counter. “Tell me your fucking name.” 

The girl comes back with a new bag. “Here you go, sir–” And she tastes the tension in the air. The customer takes his now-oozy, cheesy sandwich and points at Aaron. “What’s up with him? Huh? Place has shit service. We wanna talk to your manager.”

When Marv eventually arrives, Aaron drowns out the sound of their babbling, the sounds of Marv yelling at the mess on the floor. He returns to extracting the rings from the machine. Feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Aaron, hey – hey. Aaron. Turn around.”

He does.

“I’d like you to apologize to these gentlemen for your behavior.”

Aaron glares at Marv for a good few seconds. The two customers are standing there, waiting, with half-hidden grins. Steadily, he walks up to the counter. Locks eyes with the puffy-faced gumball. And instead of apologizing, he whips out his phone and takes a quick few images of the man.

“Hey, what the fuck?” The man is even more amused. Laughs and points, looking at Marv. “Did he just take a photo of me?”

“Aaron?” Marv is just as concerned. But Aaron pockets the phone and takes off his hat. “Aaron, delete that – sir, I’m sorry – _Aaron!”_ His voice lowers to a hiss. “You apologize right now, what are you doing? I’m not gonna take this shit in my restaurant.”

And Aaron looks dead into Marv’s tiny, crinkled eyes. “Fuck you, Marvin.” He tosses his cap in a nearby trash can and stalks out, through the side door, across the seating area and past the two men. The girl is standing next to Marvin, trying to catch his eye. He doesn’t look back.

Out through the hospital halls, the central lobby, and the revolving door. He’s walking fast, but nobody follows him. Good. Steps out to a thick, dense downpour. Jesus, what is with this rain? It’s only been getting worse all day. Daylight is low. He realizes now he’s left his jacket in the restaurant. A bit too late for that. Should’ve thought this through, now that he looks back. It’s fine. He hunches over in the cold and jogs across the parking lot to his car. Muddy white sneakers skidding on wet concrete, dirty puddles and patches of loose grass. Once in the car, the door slams shut and he takes a second to breathe. His blood is rushing. Not for what he just did, but for what he’s going to do.

Wipes his hands dry on the passenger seat and opens up his gallery to survey the fresh images. They’re not blurry, not shaky. Perfect capture of the man’s face. This would do well enough. This, and the card he found in Raymond Voyeres’ wallet, would both do well enough.

Cold and dripping wet, but he refrains from starting his vehicle and getting the heat going. He just sits there, listening to himself breathe, to the pattering of rain on the metal around him. Places both hands on the wheel and rubs it up and down, slowly, gripping tight. Tight enough to snap the wheel in half. Eyes closed. Just breathe it out. Just breathe–

 _“GAAAAAH! FUCK! FUUUUCK!”_ He brings his hands crashing onto the wheel, ramming it with his arms and his fists; slams his foot down on the car floor, hits the wheel into blaring the horn more than a few times. Grabs the wheel with both hands and shakes himself with it. “GNNGH-! SHIT!” And with two final slams, his head hits the wheel, and he’s quiet. And sobbing. Even a person sitting in the car wouldn’t have heard him cry, so stifled were his heaves, but he’s crying. The sound of the rain helps drown it out a bit, for sure. Hot tears trickle down the face of the wheel. It’s okay. Nobody here to watch him. Just take a moment.

His sobs take their own time to settle. It’s always impossible to force them down once he starts. When his heaves subside, he considers moving on with the day. He realizes how cold he is. His nose is blocked from crying. That’ll be fun to sit through. He looks up, blinking clarity into his eyes. Glances up and out the windshield, across the lot. There’s someone standing there. For a moment, he thinks the man from inside followed him out – but no, whoever that is, is much smaller. He can’t make anything out in the rain.

The individual is in a hooded coat. Appropriate for the rain. But something about them makes Aaron’s skin crawl. Like how the light off their body doesn’t match with the rest of what he’s seeing. They’re somehow brighter, and warmer. They don’t appear to be wet. They don’t seem to be there at all. But they are somewhere. Somewhere else. He feels that. So why does he see them here?

And as if to confirm he isn’t imagining them, the person raises a hand and waves at him. A small, skinny, pale hand. Perplexed, he waves back. Their little wave is cute, almost endearing. Not remotely threatening, or ominous. He can’t see them under their hood. But the general shape looks like a young man.

And as soon as he saw the being, they’re gone. As if they never were. He sits as still as possible, shivering in the cold, and in fear. His eyes dart to the windows to his left and right. To his rear-view. Expecting a classic jump scare as the demon teleports into his car and eats him alive. But nothing happens. He spends a good ten minutes like this, eventually gathering the courage to turn his head and look around, examine the spot ahead of him again. But nothing. It’s as if it never happened.

Might be the mind playing tricks. He’s hungry. Adrenaline is rushing from what he’d just done. He just had a bit of a breakdown. And this rain is very hard to see in. Maybe someone was there, and they just walked away, and he didn’t see it properly. It was probably that, to be honest. He’s overreacting. And at this point, he’s too cold to sit here and postulate. He needs the heater.

Aaron brings the car to life with a turn of the key and flips on the air conditioning, blasting warm air into his face. Drying him. He stuffs his hand in his pocket to feel around for the card he’d stolen; yes, it’s still there. This could be promising. Time to drive. He’d need a towel once he got to where he was going. And maybe a hit.

Definitely a hit.

He pulls out his phone again. Taps a name to call. A few rings before a husky voice picks up.

“Aaaaron, my man. Where you been?”

“I’m coming in,” says Aaron, trying to keep his voice steady after all that screaming. “Tell Braggs to let me in, I don’t have my pass card on me. Got something for you. You still know how to do mag strip breaks?”

Bit of silence. “Yeah. Why?”

“I need a favor. And, uh – another – another favor. I’ll pay for them, just hear me out first.”

“Aaron, you don’t gotta grovel with me. Just tell me what you need.”

“In person. I’m on my way.”

*

Thin, pale fingers fly across a keyboard with unparalleled precision as she types, her eyes fixed on the screen, never blinking.

_Dear Ms. Fyenmarr, I hope you are well._

No, too formal. Robotic. Backspace; fire away again.

_Hello, Ms. Feynmarr! Hope everything is well._

“Everything is well…?” She whispers it back out loud. No, that sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Backspace again.

_Hello, Ms. Feynmarr! Hope you’re doing well._

That’s better. She types on.

 _I am simply confirming –_ no, no, there it is again. Too robotic. _I’m just writing to confirm –_ Nope. No. _Just checking in to confirm if you and your family are still…_ Still down? Still on? Still coming. _Still coming for the charity dinner next Friday. You’re all on the VIP list so there won’t be any issues entering the venue. So, I really hope you can make it! Looking forward to seeing you all. Warm regards, Kate._

“Warm… regards?” She should really be more consistent with her sign-offs. Such is always the case with emailing someone for the first time, with her.

 _Best wishes, Kate._ Best wishes? It’s not her birthday, for Pete’s sake.

 _Take care –_ no, that’s clunky. She clicks her tongue in impatience. Wants to be done.

_Best, Kate._

A bit too curt, perhaps. But it’s the best one yet, she thinks. It’ll do. She clicks _send_ and leans back in her chair. Runs her fingers through her hair, down the back, and grips her neck with both hands, pulling her elbows in. Eyes closed. Tightens her grip until It’s all she can feel, and she focuses on her own breath. In and out; nice and slow. Just focus on your breath. The rise and fall of your chest. The weight of your feet on the floor. The tension in your arms. Steady, firm, gentle. It works out. She feels better. She does this for a few short minutes. That would have to do for now. Plenty of work to be done.

Opens her eyes to see a woman standing at the door to her office, holding a tablet and looking very uncertain. She’s short, plump, with her hair in a neat bun and thick-rimmed glasses askew on her nose. Kate brings her arms down and leans forward. Both hands clasped on her desk.

“Kashaf! Come in.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you!” Kashaf strides in and takes a seat across from Kate and her desk. “Were you meditating?”

“Yup. Just helps me through the day sometimes.”

“That’s _so, so_ good, that you do that.” Kashaf accentuates every “so” with three-finger jabs in the air. “It’s honestly such a detoxer. I keep telling Addi to come to sound therapy group. Have you been?”

Kate shakes her head.

“You should. The vibrations really just–” and she motions with both arms like a pair of unfurling wings and does a full inhale and exhale, eyes closing for dramatic effect. “Really, really clears you out. You feel so fresh and alive.” She leans in and lowers her voice, as it to tell a malignant secret. “Get a scented humidifier for your office. It. Does. _Magic._ I can give you _full_ access to my oil collection.”

Kate isn’t sure what she means by “oil collection”, but finds it rude to ask. She smiles. “I’ll keep that mind.”

“Anywayyyy, I’ll get out of your hair, just wanted to bring this up to your attention.” She hands Kate the tablet. “Albany sent over their inventory manifest for next week… I don’t know, do those–” She grabs the tablet back from Kate and points on the screen, turning it again to show her. “Those orders? Think they got two crates more than we asked for.”

Kate’s eyes fly across the little screen, matching the numbers. She wakes up her PC and clicks around; Kashaf can’t see what she’s doing. Her one-handed typing speed is impressive. Kashaf herself is a hunt-and-pick kind of gal. She prefers tablets with keyboards small enough that it wouldn’t matter too much. But Kate on the other side has already cycled through 3 new tabs, sent out something to print and opened up a new email box to type.

“Hmm… Thanks, I’ll look into it. Just copy over the data for me, would you?” Hands the tablet back.

“Gotcha.”

She gets up to leave. “So I’m signing you up for sound therapy, right?”

They both laugh. “Rain check for now, but thanks.”

“Alrighty!” And she leaves. Kate gets up to quietly shut the door behind her. She’d have to keep it shut more often. She didn’t quite like being seen like that, even if it was just Kashaf. It could’ve been anyone. She considers locking the door. But that would be rude. People come and go in her office all day. It’s fine; nobody would barge in without asking.

So many more people to call. Emails to type. And this new manifest issue. It’s not out of the ordinary, and Kate appreciates the workload. Keeps her mind occupied. But every now and then, it’s important to take stock – feel yourself in the world you live in, she believes. Not wise to get so caught up in the running that you forget the name of the street you’re running on.

The office feels warm. Especially in these incorrigible rains. She’s heard every single one of her employees complain about it – incorrigible, incessant, unending, horrible. Makes her want to abstain from speaking her part. Because she actually likes the rain… Kate walks over to the single, large sliding window in her office and cracks it open. There it is. The smell of wet asphalt, mud and chilly dew on grass. She’s not too many floors up from the road below. People are still going about their lives, wrapped up in raincoats and trench coats and hoodies and umbrellas and some who just wander with their heads open to the skies. As she watches, a young man in a black jacket runs across her view, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a thick folder above his head. Just get wet, she thinks. It’s just water. It’ll dry off. No need to get your folder wet. What’s in there? Something important, no doubt. It’ll get wet.

“Unless it’s in those plastic sheet covers,” she says to herself, walking away from the window. She’s always wanted a bunch of those to store individual resumes and other documents in. Seems so neat and tidy. Yes, those plastic covers would protect this young man’s folder contents. She wonders if he has them. Maybe that’s why he feels confident using it as an umbrella. Or perhaps he’s just stupid. Who knows?

The man runs past someone else, and Kate realizes he’s looking right at her. First instinct is to move back and pull the blinds closed. But it’s just a homeless bum. There’s a crazed look on his face. Tattered clothes, blank eyes and unkempt beard. 

Layers of newspaper wrapped around his feet. Massive coat. Several scarves. She’s seen this before, but never in October, when it’s nowhere near that cold. What’s more interesting is that his coat doesn’t seem to be wet. It’s not covered in the sheen of drenched cloth and fabric. Is it some kind of hydrophobic material? What are the odds of him finding that? Maybe someone gave it to him… A good soul. 

He doesn’t seem to be looking at her. Not really. More likely that he’s looking through her, at nothing at all. Probably harmless. 

She turns from the window. Her office is small. A quaint, square room with brand new wood paneling on much older floors. Her desk is an antique she’d owned for years. It sits to the right, dark and rich and obscenely rectangular. The gleaming silver monitor perched on it is stark in contrast to the rest of the aesthetic. The door which she just closed is flanked by a standing lamp on one side, and a coat rack on the other. There’s a filing cabinet across from her – some shelves sliding out on their own. Is it worth fixing? Probably. Those files are ancient. From back when she’d started this company. It seemed inappropriate to just throw them away. And she has to get Kashaf or someone else to type out those documents so they can be disposed of. Put that on the list too. Speaking of disposal, the office needs a proper paper shredder… Also goes on the list.

The cabinet stands next to a whiteboard. Violent swirls and scribbles in red and green litter the landscape. Charts, diagrams, ideas, post-it notes earmarking points that went on to become corporeal. Kate observes the different sets of handwriting on the board. Reminds her of a time when the office was less empty.

The whiteboard is at the end of the wall. Next to it is a small trolley. An electric water kettle sits on it. Packets of sugar. Powdered creamer. Instant coffee and three full boxes of tea bags. The rack below has a small assortment of cups and spoons. She personally never reaches for the coffee, but it’d be rude not to offer some to any guests who weren’t privy to the leaf. She considers getting a mini-fridge to store real milk and cream, but her office doesn’t get enough guests to justify the investment. The sudden urge to brew a cup overwhelms her, and she gives the kettle a small lift to check its weight; still some water left from this morning. Good. She wouldn’t have to go outside to fill it up. Sets it to boil and walks back to her desk. Enough putting off work.

Well… she could wait for the water to boil, at least. Take a small break to drink. Of course she can. Who’s the boss? She is. She can take a break.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket. She checks the caller ID – relief.

_TRUFFLES_

“Hey, Tori.”

“Hey, we still on for today?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you at your office at seven. Hey, did you get a meeting with-?”

“Yeah, yeah, all set. Fair warning about their biz dev head, he’s a pain in the ass. And a creep. Just ignore him.”

“Did he bother you?”

“Ugh, he – _Alicia!_ You’re on the clock, sweetheart! Earn your minutes!”

Kate moves the phone away from her ear.

“Jesus Christ – sorry. New temp is really chatty.”

“It’s okay. I can’t get Kashaf to shut up sometimes either.”

“Yeah, so – shit, where are my-? So the guy kept asking, _asking, asking,_ for my number, like – take a hint, fuck. Forget it. I… brought them up to speed on the – the Avalanche-?”

“Avalagers.”

“Right – what does the even mean? The Avalagers consignment, we’ll have to redo the contract by the 17th.”

Kate has the contract on her desktop. She pulls it up. “You said… clause B?”

“Yup, they said we should include a liability and… reimbursement clause. For water damage.”

“Right… how’d we miss that? I’ll talk to Oretta.”

“Talk to Morris too, he said he wanted to see you about some new program down in San Francisco.”

“Oh, I already did – it sounds good. You want me to set up a call with the organizers?”

“Sure. How is… let me check…” The phone rustles as she fumbles. Fingers bumping the mic. “My ten o’clock is free on Tuesday.”

Kate makes a quick calendar reminder. “Ten o’clock… Tuesday… great. I’ll run it by them.”

“Yup. All good on your end?”

“All good. Oh, yeah – little shipping error. Albany got two extra crates, it’s no big deal, I’ll sort it out.”

Audible hiss on the other end. “Goddammit – sorry, sorry. Ugh – they’ve been at this for months. We’ll need a new distributor.”

Kate laughs. “It’s fine, Tori. I’ll talk to them. They’re usually doing just fine for me.”

“For now. If they keep fucking up, I’ll need to see about roping in Pollock and Sons? Maybe you should check out their brochure. I’ll send it over. Just in case. Anyway… I gotta call mom. See you tonight?”

“You better. Oh – are you coming to the charity dinner on Friday?”

“Of course! You invited the Feynmarrs, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Get your hair done, for fuck’s sake.”

“Bye, Tori.”

“See ya.”

Rarely were phone calls cathartic, but she cherished these little talks. Checks the time; it’s almost noon. Lunch is approaching. She wonders what she’ll have today. A turkey club sounds good. But that’s gotten a bit repetitive, hasn’t it? Nobody else she knows likes those, so the cashier at the restaurant across the street always knows what Kate wants when she walks in. She likes the cashier. She wants to see her today. Turkey club would do just fine. Her water is done boiling. But she's hungry. It can wait. 

Kate pockets her phone and tosses on her coat. Picks her umbrella out of the stand. It would be a tough walk through this windy drizzle.

As she’s approaching her door, the phone buzzes in her pocket. What now? Tori forgot something again, didn’t she? But she’s very surprised at the caller ID.

_SPACEMAN_

Immediately picks up. “Warren! Hi!”

“Hey! It’s Warren. How are you?”

“I know it’s you, I have you saved. I’m doing great, tell me about you! Been so long since you called.” She sits down at her desk again and leans back in her chair.

“Me? I’m alright. I’m doing good. Been a while. How’s the group? I heard you guys –”

“Yeah, we’re doing great. Tori – Victoria – she’s a major help. We’re having a charity dinner this week, you should come. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Oh, is that right? That’s impressive. Hey, listen, I have some – well, not exactly bad news, but more like unpleasant news, but might be good news –”

“Warren, what’s the news?” Kate laughs. “You sound excited.”

“Sorry. Yeah – I got in touch with Max. Have you been…?”

“Max?” Kate sits up now, elbows on her desk. “Wow… no, we don’t really talk. I don’t blame her, she’s a – she works in police, doesn’t she? Must be consuming.”

“Yeah, she keeps busy.” His voice gets strained, like he’s lifting a heavy load. “Ye – yeah, one sec – so – fffuck!”

Kate giggles. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry – got it. Yeah, sorry – trying to get the damn ticket.”

“Ticket for what?”

“– Ticket for parking. I’m at the hospital right now.”

She rubs her wrist on impulse, smile vanishing. “Hospital? You okay?”

“Yeah, see, this is why it’s not exactly good news. Max was in… some kind of… accident…”

“Accident?” She sits up straight. “What do you mean? What happened? How bad is it?” She’s not hungry anymore. “What, like, a car accident?”

“Uh, no, she’s not – I mean, she has a concussion. And a broken arm. But she’s doing okay. They’re letting her leave today.”

Relief. If she’s being discharged, she must be fine. The insurmountable panic that had welled up inside her dispels quickly.

“I’m having her over for dinner tonight. You wanna come? It’ll make a good surprise. Cheer her up.”

She’s ecstatic. And worried. This would mean an unpleasant conversation with Victoria. But she meets her almost every week. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s seen Max.

“Absolutely. I’ll be there. What time? Around six?” She clicks open her schedule on the monitor to check if there are any calls or appointments this evening. There are none. This couldn’t come at a better time.

“Yeah, six, seven, whenever. Up to you, I don’t care. Just let me know when you’re heading out.”

“Sure. I can bring something if you like. No, I don’t wanna show up without – oh, do you like lemon bars? I have an extra batch.”

“… oh, that actually sounds good. Bring that. I gotta go. See you tonight.”

“Yup. Bye, Warren.”

Victoria could wait. Avalagers could wait. The Albany warehouse and their extra crates be damned. Kate decided to hold off on lunch and complete the preliminary paperwork for these tasks. Kashaf can finish them in her stead. Why else would she have an assistant? One day off work won’t hurt anyone. She answers to no one. And this is an event worth taking time off for. Max… she doesn’t know how she’ll greet her old friend. But she’ll figure it out. She opens the team’s chat client and sends Kashaf a message.

_Hey, come by my office for a sec? When you can_

Explaining it to Kashaf would be easy. Victoria is another matter.

“That’s good to hear. And how’s your daughter doing? Cora?”

“Oh, she’s magnificent as always. Came in first in the, uh – the ‘inter-school sprint’... she takes after her mother.” The man smiles through his neatly-trimmed goatee. “How is everything with your, associate? Kate Marsh? I hear you’re both doing quite well.”

She leans over the guard rail and lets the cool breeze and searing sun scald her face. “She’s spectacular, really.” She means it, and makes sure he gets that. “She’s a pleasure to work with. I couldn’t ask for better.”

“You know...” The man approaches the rail too, putting both elbows on it and cradling his martini in two hands. His silver suit vest stretches tight over a stocky build as he lets his arms rest on the railing. “I think it’s wonderful, what you’re doing there. I see it all over the news, almost every month. Stellar work in Kenya. Both of you. I mean it.”

She smiles and looks away, into the distance. Vast stretches of rolling hills, thickets of trees, dotted with bungalows and tennis courts and winding roads slicing through the green. The sky is a brilliant blue and utterly cloudless. The air smells like firewood. Their observation deck allows for a vast, near-endless panoramic view. Her wine is dry, the driest she’s had in a while. She takes a sip. The accolades had soured over the years with people and their chatter, of how she did it all to save face, to cleanse her hands of filth. There was a time when she’d have rejected his praise to his face. But things change.

“Thank you. Have to try and do what we can.”

“Yeah, the world’s seen better days. I’d like to help out in some way too, if I can. If you ever need an investor, or donations for Marsh & Chase – and I’m not exactly promising, but – let me know. Even if I can’t, I know some people who’d jump at the chance.”

She actually does appreciate that. “I will. Thanks, Demos.”

“Least I can do.”

“Anyone helping is enough.” She looks back out toward the hills again. The green is too mesmerizing. “We gotta take care of each other, you know?”

“Couldn’t agree more.” He sips again. Clears his throat. “Especially with how things are lately. You hear about the crazy weather these days?” Shaking his head at the absurdity of it. “Down in Seattle, definitely. My aunt lives there, said there hasn’t been a dry morning in over a week. Heard of things like that happening in other cities down the west coast as well. Sporadic rainstorms in October, Los Angeles? Never thought I’d see the day...”

She takes another sip without looking away from the view. “Yeah, it’s good while it lasts.”

“I’m sorry?”

She nods toward the skyline. “Take a look now. How beautiful it is. Won’t stay the same much longer.”

He chuckles. “How Nostradamian of you.”

“We all saw it coming. Some of us just didn’t want to, is all.” 

“Some of us still don’t.”

They both take sips in sync. “You’ll be coming to the charity dinner on Friday?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’ve attracted too many big names for me to not try and mingle.”

“I’m sure they feel the same way about you.”

He laughs. “Nice.” Checks his watch. The spin of his wrist sends a streak of sun across the blaring gold of the watchstrap. “I should get back to it. They’ve probably started without me.”

“See you Friday.” She raises her glass, and he does the same. Finishes his drink on the short walk back into the building.

She wonders how correct that statement was. How long would it all really last? The question spanned beyond trees for her. At points, she feels it’s all just the circumstantial mercy of the universe – that she’s a speck in wind, poised to plummet as soon as the breeze dies down. Demos’ praise didn’t mean much to her. She’s grown tired of washing her hands. But at least he offered to join her – not many do that. Even if he doesn’t follow through with it. The offer is enough.

Another sip and her glass is empty. She wonders if she should get back to it as well. So much paperwork. So little time. But this weather is a true gem, a miracle in times like these. It’s worth a few deadline pushbacks and unhappy clients. Even just for a few more minutes.

Her phone rings. Swift check; it’s Kate.

“What’s up?”

“Hi, Tory – I have some bad news.”

“What now?”

“You remember Warren Graham? From Blackwell?”

She stops leaning over the railing and pushes herself off it with one hand, wine glass grasped between two fingers. “No… doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe. Why?”

“We stayed in touch after school. He called me right now. It’s about Max. Caulfield. Remember her?”

“Oh, fuck. Of course. Who wouldn’t, after all that shit? What about her?”

“Well she and Warren were married for a while, and–”

“Shut your mouth, really? I thought she was gay.”

“– she’s... no, she was – anyway, she’s been in a little accident, apparently, and she’s getting out of the hospital today. And Warren wants to surprise her with a dinner party or something.”

“And he invited you.”

She can smell Kate’s guilt all the way from Seattle. “I’m so sorry – Max was one of my best friends in school, it’d be terrible of me not to see her now–”

“Oh my god, relax. I get it. It’s – whatever. We’ll catch up later.”

“Are you sure–?”

“ _Kaaaate_ , it’s fine. Enjoy the party. Let me know how it goes.”

“Thanks, Tori.”

“Later.”

And she hangs up. Stares at the phone for a while. Certainly unexpected. But all things considered, fairly reasonable of Kate to want to go. Perfectly reasonable.

She looks back out to calm herself. In the distance, far away, there are shapes moving across the sky. Odd. squints her eyes. What are those? Too low to be jets. Too many in number. Not a flock of birds. 

Helicopters. They’re helicopters. She grabs the railing and leans outward trying to get a better look. About six or seven - no, eight - helicopters flying toward the city ahead. It’s strange to see a single helicopter these days, but eight? 

What’s more jarring, and perhaps what keeps her rooted to her spot, is that their blades are as quiet as the sky itself. At this altitude, she should’ve heard them coming. She didn’t. Neither did Demos. 

Spinning, whirring blades that make no sound. What’s more, the copters seem to be lit by something that isn’t there. Their underbellies are dark, with orange and yellow washes of light dancing off them. Their bodies are nearly black, as if the sun washing over everything chose to skip them. Like moving cutouts in a blue canvas. She looks down below at the street. Nothing there to even remotely suggest such light on them. Just trees and road. Looks up again and pulls out her phone to take a picture. 

They’re gone. 

They hadn’t finished crossing the sky, but they’re gone. She sways and stumbles back. Whips around, half a mind to call someone out here - but nobody can hear her from inside. And think about how ridiculous that would be. No, calm yourself. 

She couldn’t hear them. Maybe they were… never there? She looks down her empty glass. Not even through the most obscene contortions of logic could she force herself to arrive at the idea that she’d gotten drunk off these few sips of wine, and then hallucinated helicopters for some reason. 

Maybe they immediately changed course in the few seconds she’d looked away. Maybe they really were far enough away to not be heard. Maybe it’s some new silent blade technology being tested. Maybe she’s actually asleep and this is a dream. Any explanation would do. Any at all. 

The air doesn’t feel so refreshing any more. It’s cold, and her nose is numb. The sun would be gone soon – unlike before, she can see clouds fast-approaching. Dangerously fast. She hopes those are real. Looks away and back again to confirm - yes, they’re still there. And her eyes are a bit too dilated from the blazing greens. She needs the four walls of her office. If this were a dream, she’d be able to fly across these hills to the city right now. She tries thinking about it, but her feet stay planted on the ground. Pity. 

One final look, and Victoria Chase strides back inside, leaving the deck empty and growing ever colder.

*

“Coffee?”

Nod.

“ _Coffee, yes or no?”_

“Ye- yeah. Yes. I’ll take coffee.”

Nathan Prescott watches as the woman sets a paper cup down under a nozzle and flips it over. A thin, beady drip of acrid, black bean water fills it in a few seconds. She places it on his tray without looking up. “Next. Fruit or flakes?”

The tray is full. Nathan walks over to his usual table. Careful not to spill the coffee; she’s filled it up too high. It’s splashing all over the tray. It’s spilling. It’s just going everywhere now. Fuck it.

The table is quiet when he sits down. Even Hick, although Nate’s still catching glances from the man. He’s too hungry to worry about anything yet. There’s a handful of chopped fruit. A glass of “juice”. Bread. Margarine. Eggs. Some milk. And of course, his coffee. Let’s not forget that. Goes for that first. The rest could wait.

He’s drinking in silence, as is the hall. Talk during chow wasn’t a regular activity. Twelve minutes to scarf down breakfast, and then back they go to their cells and wait for the next three batches of diners to cycle through the mess, before morning count at 11 am. Even so, as he downs the dregs of his tepid pick-me-up and goes to work loading scrambled eggs on his oiled bread, Hick nudges his elbow. Nate ignores him. Keep those eggs stable – don’t want any falling out during the first bite. Another nudge. Nate takes a bite; big, flavorless, like sawdust, wet and watery like a used sponge; a mouthful of incarceration. Washes it down with the juice that tastes suspiciously like cough syrup.

A third nudge – a hard one. Nate looks over to his cellmate. Shakes his head with eyebrow shooting up. _What?_

Hick looks at him and does a few vigorous shakes of his head too, saying _no._ He leans over. “Fuckin’ forget about it,” he hisses, before leaping back onto his own sandwich.

Nate goes back to eating. Hick has been saying this for days. In variant ways, of course. Initially, he’d been delivering it under the guise of jokes.

“So do I get to keep ya Walkman when ye get Larry-stomped in the showers? Haha!”

Then it was a more subdued show of veiled concern, hidden behind casual indifference.

“Ya know, Nops, I dunno – like, ye got a death wish? I get it, the food is shit, we don’t always get our own toilets, big fuckin’ woop, don’t mean ya gotta go and…”

But Nate had been ignoring him with a consistency that impressed even himself. Hick had resorted, now, to these desperate warnings. _Don’t._

He appreciates the show of concern. But Nate also knows that Hick just doesn’t want to deal with re-acclimating to a new cellmate if Larry does actually gut him at some point. Then again, Hick has always been the flimsy type.

“TWO MINUTES! FINISH UP!”

Shit, what’s left? The fruit. He forks in large bites of sour, stingy pineapple, grapes and chopped mushy apples. Three bites and it’s all gone. Chugs the cold milk. Tray is empty.

“CLEAR!” There’s a unified clatter of trays and sporks being set down. Correctional officers patrol the aisles banging their fists on tables where inmates are still scarfing down some remnants. “Time up. _Time up, Diaz._ On your feet, line up to your group… line up to group… line up to group, come on…”

Table by table, prisoners clear the hall in batches. Each group escorted by an officer back to their cells. Nate and Hick’s cell is only three down from Larry’s. They’re in the same group.

“Let’s go,” their CO calls out. He looks to something over Nate’s shoulder and his hand rests on his radio. “Larry. Get in the group.”

Nate looks over to see Larry standing there, by himself, looking up at the fan vents dotting the high walls of the mess. Sunlight is blazing in. It’s rare these days – people can’t even go outside much. Larry’s immense brick of a figure stands there like a tree trunk, still as wood, if not for the steady rising of his chest. He's an immense man. His thick, knotted arms come down hanging like loose branches, his tiny eyes fixed above him. 

“Larry. Get in line. Now.” The CO’s voice is low and stable, one he’s not used to using. Another officer looks over from his group. “Larry, get in your group,” he calls. But Larry’s fixed on the beams of sun leaking in. Eyes wide with childlike wonder. Other groups are starting to walk out, shooting glances.

Someone on Nate’s left leaves his position to talk to their group escort. Low whispering. The CO nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Nate knows him. It’s Larry’s cellmate, Vaas. A man nearly half the size of the sun-gazer over there, shorter than Nate himself and perhaps twice as skinny. Vaas walks over to Larry.

It’s a spectacle. The guards, the batch, all watch in awe. It takes Vaas a few good seconds to grab Larry’s attention. The giant looks down at him with surprise, and anger. But Vaas is speaking low and slow. Using hand gestures to accent his words. And Larry calms down. His blotchy face is less tensed, and his brows relax. Vaas puts a hand on his elbow and leads him to the group.

“Alright, let’s move,” the CO calls. Nate can hear the weight of Larry’s steps behind him. Why would this lumbering troll steal his book? He’s doubtful Larry can even read. He’s never heard the man speak. Official story was Asperger’s. But Larry defied any notion of the deviant genius. Nate recounts Larry’s rep, something he’d memorized thanks to Hick’s incessant jabbering. Four homicides. In for life. Used to live at home with his mom on old money, until he snapped and snapped a few necks. Nate isn’t sure how true any of that is – except the charge, of course – since word-of-mouth tales did melt over time, like candle wax. Nonetheless, even communicating to Larry would be a task, let alone trying to get his book back. 

There’s something in the air as they walk back to their floor. Nate hasn’t seen people this tense before. Larry never acted so blatantly divergent. The walls are rotting. Moss and rust inch downward from upper corners and paint peels like dry skin. The brickwork beneath is decrepit and ancient. Poised to crumble. A fool’s dream, of course. These walls are built to last. And yet, they don’t look like they can take much longer. 

Nate looks to his left, over Hick’s bowed head. There’s Antonio. The twenty-something newbie who arrived a week prior. His second day here, he started crying over his tray during breakfast. The day after that, he started throwing books at his cellmate. Took two guards to hold him down for the tranquilizer. And yet, here he is, among the rest of them. Not a tantrum in sight. Those dead eyes are building up to another snap. It’s in the air too. Antonio’s shuffling feet are erratic. His eyes dart left and right. His fingers twitch and a vein pops in his neck. He’s not prepared to do his time. He wants out. But even so, no real punishment for nearly assaulting two guards. The warden has a soft spot for Antonio. Everyone knows why. 

And what else is in the air? Why, Nate himself, of course. He’s woken up in pitch black, mattress drenched in sweat. He’s forgotten what time it is, multiple times. His blood rushes to his toes and ears. He looks down at his hands as he walks, and they don’t seem to be his own. 

_“_ _There’s going to be some – something strange is happening, I can’t prepare you for it but you’ll know when you see it. Just… stick around. Okay? Be safe.”_

Was it pure coincidence? Was her visit a hallucination, or a dream? The dust hasn’t yet settled around him since that day. Her words ring through these steel bars, barbed wire and high walls. Even before she came, and after she left, people have been unraveling. Nate himself could feel an essential instability, something amiss - a piece lost and forgotten, a puzzle incomplete, fingernails bending and snapping over chalkboard. Awry. Unpleasant. Oncoming. 

The silence is palpable back in his cell. Hick and Nate await the end of morning count. Nate gets off his bunk. 

“Nops.” 

“Shut up, Hick.” 

“Nops.”

He turns, exasperated; Hick is sitting at the desk chair, elbows on his knees and bent over, looking up at Nate. 

“What?”

“Don’t fuck with Vaas.” 

He blinks. “Vaas? Why would I fuck with Vaas? You said Larry took my book. You trying to fuck with _me,_ Hick?” 

“I ain’t fuckin’ with you. I saw Larry take yer book. But you go there lookin’ for Larry, you gonna end up talkin’ to Vaas.” 

“I got nothing to do with Vaas.” 

“You do if ye wanna stir shit up with Larry.” Hick jabs the air with a finger on every word. “Ya know I keep sayin’ bout Nelson? Larry stepped on ‘is throat - tha’s the story. Larry didn’ do nothin. Nelson stuck his nose in the wrong shit. You hearin’ me?” 

Nate shakes his head. “No. No, man. I’m not hearing jack shit.” 

Hick leans back and exhales, arms crossing. “Then you’re a fuckin’ idiot.” 

Nate tries to jab back. But Hick looks a bit too serious. He’s never heard the man talk like this before. 

“On’ reason I been here this long and still got both my eyes is ‘cause I learn’ quick to shut up aroun’ Vaas.” 

Hick leans forward again. “You go walkin’ in there ‘bout some stupid fuckin’ book, you’re fuckin’ yourself. Ye hear me, Nops? You’re fuckin’ yourself.” 

Nate does hear him. He’s seen Vaas ever since he arrived here all those years ago. The man never seemed to age. He spoke very little. The guards got along with him well. He’d stroll the grounds alone before everyone else was allowed out. He’d stay out longer. He’d listen to music out loud when no one else could. A strange beast. Small, spindly, a face broken and shallow, but deep, blaring eyes. Why was Hick so scared? 

It didn’t matter, did it? Nate had made up his mind three days ago, when his book had gone missing. All this is just noise now. And with that in mind, he turns on his heel, ripping his gaze from Hick’s, and steps outside. 

Larry’s cell is a few doors down. He walks with no inhibition. The murmur and bustle of people is getting louder now that count is done. People shooting past him to get to the showers before a line builds up. 

Their door is ajar. Silence inside. Uninhibited, he pushes it open. 

It’s an empty cell. Their beds are made, their books are stacked. But neither party is to be found. That’s fine; more than fine, in fact. He just needs his book back.

Nate scours every shelf and corner. It’s not a large cell; there are no places to hide objects. The longer he looks, the more desperate his search spots become. Behind the toilet? Inside the pillows? 

This is horseshit. The book isn’t here. He storms out of their cell and back to his own, to ream Hick for giving him false info. 

Hick isn’t here, either. 

Is he at the showers? Is he downloading his emails from the kiosk? Hick didn’t usually rusk out after breakfast. Nate walks over to their desk; Hick was right here ten minutes ago. Where-? 

He whips around to see Vaas at his door, hands resting on the frame as he hangs inward. Behind him stands Larry, Hick, and a few other inmates. Nate recognizes a CO as well. They’re just standing there. 

“C-can I… help you?” he blurts. 

“No.” Vaas is staring at him with his head tilted. Unfathomable. He swiftly steps inside the cell and shuts the door behind him. 

“Hey, the fuck do you think-” 

“Hick tells me you have a problem.” 

Nate isn’t able to show dominance, try as he might. Vaas is a tiny man. But he’s standing very close to Nate, eyes never blinking, voice steady. Nate doesn’t know how to handle this. It’s unnerving. 

“Problem?”

Vaas kicks the chair. “Sit.” 

And he does. Vaas makes himself comfortable on Nate’s bed. 

They stare at each other. Vaas sits with his back straight, hands cradled in his lap. His neck is stiff and poised like a pelican. Crooked nose and twisted eyebrows framing a gaunt and troubling face. But his eyes are what destabilize Nathan’s attempts at finding common ground. Vast and lifeless, they feel like holes to an empty cosmos. Still, Vaas says nothing. He’s observing Nate like a lion does its prey; hunched in the grass, waiting. Nate glances at the door; those shapes are still there, standing. Finally, he breaks. 

“What do you want, Vaas?”

Vaas looks surprised. “Me?” He points at himself. “I don’t want anything.” 

More silence. Nate doesn’t like this chair. It’s hard and tiny. He prefers his bed. 

“Okay…” 

And yet, Vaas continues to say nothing, do nothing but stare. 

“The fuck are you doing here, then?” Nate can feel sweat on his palms. Pushing that statement out took air with it. Vaas leans slightly forward, breaking his gaze for the first time to look at Nate’s hands. 

“I’m here to talk.” 

“Talk?”

“Talk.” 

“Okay. So talk.” 

Vaas is silent again. His gaze moves behind Nathan to the little desk he shares with Hick. Smiles. 

“Is - is that Gulliver’s Travels?” He points at the small stack of volumes. Nate is confounded. Glances behind him. “Ye - yeah. Yes, it is.” 

“I used to love that one.” Vaas is beaming. A smile on that crow-like face is truly horrifying. “My old man got it for me on my ninth birthday. Momma would read it to me before bed. I dressed up as him for a Halloween party at school once, you know? I made little Lilliput dolls out of my brother’s old socks and tied them to myself with butcher twine, made it look like I - hah! Like I _broke_ through their bonds and walked away with them - still hanging off me!” 

He’s chuckling hard, stifling heavy laughs. “Goddamn, nobody got it.” Sighs. Still smiling. Looks at Nate again. “Nobody got my costume. But my dad did.” 

Nate says nothing. He can’t calculate an angle for how this could be an intimidation move. He wonders how much Hick has told the man. 

“You know Lilliputs, Nathan?” Vaas suddenly gets serious. 

“What?”

“The Lilliputs. In the book. The one I just mentioned. The one sitting on your desk. You know what they are?” 

“Yeah.”

“So if I quiz you on them, you could tell me what they’re about? Right now?” 

Nate says nothing. Vaas nods. “Yeah. See, I figured as much. I didn’t take you for much of a reader. I don’t think you ever read a single book in your life.” 

Nate’s grip on his clasped hands is tightening. 

“Which, you know, made me wonder… why you’re so into this?” And his hand slides under his shirt. Something tucked into his pants. It’s a small book. The very book Nate’s been thinking about for days. His first instinct is to lunge for it, wrestle it from him, hell, he’ll cause a scene if he has to - but he remembers the men standing outside, and he remembers how Vaas made him feel, how he made his skin crawl. His hands slap his thighs and he sits up straight, breathing heavy, glaring at Vaas. 

“Give it to me.” His voice is dry. “Give me the book.” 

Vaas isn’t listening. “The Peacock and the Buffalo... by… Frederich… Nietzsche.” Looks up to Nate with a large grin. “I didn’t think you could pronounce Nietzsche, Nathan. I’m proud of you.” 

“Give it. To me.” Nate is out of patience. 

Vaas licks his finger and peels the pages, glossing over them. “Hmm… hmm… a man of… many fine words, wasn’t he? Had a lot of… things to say.” He flips through the pages faster now. Nate panics and leaps out of his chair before the pages get to the end. He doesn’t see Vaas move. Doesn’t see the hand fly back and come crashing down as a fist on the side of his head. Nate slams shoulder-first on the floor, sliding a little. His jaw feels like it’ll split apart. Is the ear bleeding?

He’s barely gotten off the floor when Vaas slides down the bed toward Nate on the floor. “See, this is what I’m really interested in.” 

He’s gotten to the last page. It’s left intentionally blank. On it, is a hand-drawn sketch of a young woman. Nate has to vomit. Hold it in. 

“Who’s this, I wonder?” 

He tries to get up. Vaas pushes his head back down with a hand. It’s uncharacteristically strong. “Who is she, Nathan?” 

“Please.” He’s whispering. Spit flying. Head reeling with pain. “Just… please. Give me the book.” 

“I know who she is, Nathan.” 

He gets off the bed and crouches next to Nate. Places the sketch in front of his face. “I know what you did to her. Poor, sweet Rachel Amber. Do you have regrets?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh, I’m trying to help you, Nathan. See -” And he lowers his voice, as if someone’s listening. “See, some folks here don’t take kindly to that sort of dirty shit. Now, I know your dear old man paid to have your PSI wiped so you wouldn’t get skewered on your first week in here. But I also know that if people find out _now,_ the kind of sick shit you got arrested for… well…” 

He takes a look at the sketch of Rachel again. Several iterations are visible as ghosts, buried under erased layers, the page worn and brittle from constant rubbing and scratching. This sketch has taken a few tries. “Beautiful, though. Such a shame.” Pauses and watches Nate breathe into the floor. 

“If Larry wants it, Larry keeps it, Nathan. That’s how it goes. He keeps your book. And I keep you. You understand?” 

Nothing. He’s quiet. 

“Good. I’m glad you do. Because, Nathan…” And he puts a hand on the back of Nate’s neck, leaning in until his mouth is an inch from his ear. “You really don’t want this getting out.” 

The weight of his arm is off. Nate waits until he hears the cell door open and the footsteps fade. Only then does he get up, but he can’t find the strength to stand. He sits on his bed and watches the floor. 

“Yard time.” The CO walks ahead of them and leads the small group down and out. Hick and Vaas follow, and the others do too. 

It’s a rare day of sun. People are taking full advantage. Skies are still black and moody, but enough has cracked open that the star can burn through. The air still smells of rain and cold winds, but the light is warm and crisp. People stand in groups, talking, walking around, scraping mud off their shoes on benches. Hick leans on a wall with his arms crossed while Vaas is perched on a bench beside him, like a vulture.

Hick is shifty. He keeps shooting sideward glances at Vaas, who’s looking out over the yard. 

“Nops is good, Vaas. He’s solid. Holds his damn mud.” 

“Mmmhh….” Vaas rubs his chin with two fingers. “No.”

“Wh - why ye gotta say no? I’m - just askin’. Just a bit o’ curiosity.” 

“Prescott’s a juicer. And he’s a bug.”

Hick looks up and pans the yard, shaking his head. Clicks his tongue. “Eh, juice ain’t no thing. Erry third motherfucker in here lookin’ to catch a ride. I know guys who pool ten times the jaunt he does.”

“I don’t like him.” 

“I get it. Ya know, I get that. But just sayin’, he prolly ain’t worth yer time.” 

Vaas gives him a look. Hick stutters. “I - I mean, ya know, he ain’t worth the - just, you said it yerself. Ain’t gotta be no trouble for some l’il juicer. More effort than it’s worth.” 

“He came into my cell.” Vaas’s voice has lowered. His words are slow and measured as he looks into the distance. “He came into my cell. Touched my things. Larry’s things, he came in there to fuck with Larry.” 

“Aaah, I told ‘im not to.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you tried your best.” 

“Hey, look, man.” Hick gets off the wall and sits down next to Vaas. The latter hasn’t taken his gaze off the distant towering walls. 

“Look, ye gotta know, with Nops, he’s - ya know, he get’s like - emotional, n’ shit. Loose cannon. But he’s - he’s fuckin’ harmless, I know ‘im. And today, he jus’ wanted ‘is book back. I - hey, I ain’t sayin’ nothin, just talkin’ bout Nops. Larry keeps what he keeps. I know. But maybe Nops dudn’t.” 

A chuckle. “He’s not some fish walking into walls, Hick.” 

“Nah, nah, but - hey, ya know, he’s been kinda, like - upset. Lately.” 

“Upset.” Vaas takes a deep sigh and turns to look at this desperate man. “Upset.” 

Hick considers telling this story. Maybe it’s not for Vaas to know. But what isn’t for Vaas to know? That threshold doesn’t seem visible under any light. And this might save Nate’s life. 

“Few days back, he gets a visitor. Yeah - fuckin’ fool me, right? Ain’t never get no visits for Nops, even my ol’ Jean rolled by once for me back in ‘09. But ain’t nobody for ‘im, no folks, nothin’. Then he gets somebody out here lookin’ to talk to ‘im, comes back all pissed, like he got told or somethin’. And ‘e’s been all riled up about the damn book since then. Tha’s all.” 

Vaas is listening with one head leaning on his fist. “Mhm. When was this?” 

Hick’s brows cross in as he thinks. Very hard. “Yea - yea - three days, three days. Ago. Yeah. Three days, most definite.” 

“Three days.” Vaas climbs off the bench, stretching his short legs. Cracks his spine. “And… who came to see him, Hick?” 

“I dunno. ‘E wouldn’ say. I asked, a lot, curious, ya know? ‘E wouldn’ say.” 

“Not a word?” Vaas is looking right at him now. Hick knows not to look away. He doesn’t blink either. 

“Nah, man, he’s all tight up about that.”

A long, hard look. Hick starts to wonder if he should’ve said more. Few men in here had the capacity to break down walls like Vaas did. Hick didn’t care for resistance. He’s never been a fish out of water; he enjoys the current pushing him where it wants. He’s no good swimmer. But now, Vaas is watching his every fin flap, his every muscle flex as he makes his way through waters that could do more than push him off balance. 

“Okay. I’m gonna see.” 

He looks away, finally. Hick can breathe. “You’re gonna see?” 

Vaas nods, hands on his hips, chin up in readiness. “I’m gonna see who he’s talking to.” 

“Oh.” 

Vaas begins to walk away without looking back. Hick is possessed by the sudden fear that he might’ve done more harm than good. 

“Hey - Vaas.” 

“Hmm?”

“Like, jus’ curious, ya know? Just askin, an’ all. But why ye wanna know who it was?” 

And Vaas smiles his smile again. “This place is a library, Hicko. And I love reading.” 

Back in his cell, Nate is on his feet. He’s fixed on the Gulliver’s Travels edition on the desk he hadn’t noticed before. Hick isn’t a reader either. Why does he have books? There are only four. 

He pulls out the book. It’s got no cover; just plain binding and faded gold letters spelling out the name. It’s small. He opens it. 

Nobody on earth could make him read this. But he does. He sits down to read it from the first page. Lays back in his bed. He’s in. The language is old, and verbose, and tepid, and boring, and monstrously taxing. He does not skip a word. Stability is waning behind these walls. He's been feeling it in every rivet and thud on concrete. Footsteps on the yard are deeper and faster; the mud never dries. Coffee spills and tray drops are frequent. People like Antonio are harbingers of what seems like an impending reality. In this, Nate searches. The smell of Vaas's breath, the weight of his hand. His words, and the sketch looking back at him, as it did all these years, by his own fruition. A face so potent, that it bound him to this relentless subjugation. His existence is one of servitude - to fate, to his actions, to cause and effect, or whatever god some rancid, neglected corner of his heart may hold dear. To people and to the chaos around him, was a swamp he'd tried to crawl out of once, and is a damnation he's taken to embrace. To that end, a revocation of the face that reminded him of his worth, and where he stood, and dispelled any reasoning for escape, beyond these walls and even down beneath the earth - that revocation, he will not stand. 

Nathan Prescott doesn't get up until the book is done. He's read it in a single sitting. His head is reeling, and his eyes are tired. He gets up to find that hours have bled through those pages; the sounds of his prison are different. His back aches. His bones are stiff. He sits up to feel his body scream. Gulliver's tale means nothing to him. Reaching the end of it, means the world. His hands, soaked in blood and dirt, grip the side of his bed. The sun condemns all the weary, and the sun is out in all its glory today. 


	4. Beneath Broken Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maoro finds himself on unstable footing. Max's plans take an unexpected turn.

The bus shelter’s packed. Nearly a dozen pairs of boots and soggy sneakers mill around under the glass box as the rain shows no end on a cold morning such as this. Cars haven’t been stopped; they slosh and slide up the street as they would. People going about their lives, the rat race unimpeded by the stubborn downpour. Headlights zoom by. Two cars nearly collide on the intersection and a cacophony of honks ensue, before both realize they’re holding up traffic and decide to let bygones be just that. Miriam Rafiq watches the near-hit unfold, mildly disappointed. 

She’s stuffed herself just at the edge of the shelter, so a good part of her face is getting the brunt of the rain. It’ll dry off in the bus, she reassures. People around and behind her are rooted to their phones, a thicket of screens and contracted eyes lighting up the box in a gentle wash of blue and white that gleams against the near-colorless vista of the wet concrete and asphalt around them. 

The bus is in sight on her left. Spectacular - a step out of this icy haze soon. Miriam’s afraid it’ll put her to sleep, though. The cold and wet is always a refreshing wakeup. It’s fine. She can soldier through. She stays awake in their stifling lab, so a bus should be no problem. But even before the bus has cleared its red light, her phone vibrates. Impossible to retrieve it in this rain. She’ll have to wait until she’s on. Little blue card in hand, ignoring the phone as it rings for the second time, she’s first in line because she dared to let the sky drench her for a few seconds before the bus pulls up with a resounding hiss, a barrage of squeaks and the crisp voice of a woman informing the world what bus it is, and where it’s going. A beep of the card reader, a few steps to the nearest window seat, and she can bring her jacket hood down. The remaining passengers board and waddle past her to whatever seats are available. It’s a crowded bus, even for a Sunday morning. Someone in the back is playing music out loud. A pitter-patter of beats and vague lyrics dance through a forest of bodies, muffled, as is the laughter of whoever’s back there. She doesn’t mind it. Some people like their bus rides to be pin-drop silent, but she couldn’t care less. When all have boarded, some people are left standing. 

Miriam lets out an audible sigh as the beast hisses and squeaks back to life and begins its steadfast journey down the city. It’s only a little bit absurd that she has to be up and about this early even on a Sunday, but family comes first. She doesn’t really mind - someone else would, but she’s fine with early morning treks. The earlier, the better. She doesn’t like sleeping in. Early to bed. 

For a while, she’s watching the buildings and cars and people zoom by - even now, someone’s out here in the rain, unprotected. She’s spotted a few. Maybe some of them actually don’t mind it. Maybe they even like it. Who knows? Denizens of the first world and their untethered privilege affords them the chaotic thrill of eccentricity, she notes. What is a cold, but a single trip to the pharmacy and a soupy meal? They’ll be fine. 

Oh, shit - her phone. Who was calling? She checks and a little panic leaks out - 2 missed calls from Maoro. 

“Hey… sorry, I was in the rain. You - what?” 

She listens for a few good minutes, her face falling and brows tightening every passing second. The bus pulls up to another red light. 

“No… Oh my - is she alright? Is she hurt?” 

A rising tumult of honks informs her that she isn’t at a traffic light. The cars beside her, and the bus too, is bleeding through what looks like a crowd of people. They’ve filled up a whole intersection and made it impossible to get through. Some kind of protest? 

“When, today? Last night… She didn’t call me. What hospital? Are you there too? Did you tell anyone else-” 

The bus finally breaks through and starts to move. People bang on her window as she passes crowds. She catches a glimpse - their faces are painted blood red, and white streaks frame their eyes, and they’re chanting something she can’t decipher. She wonders how their paint stays on in the rain. It probably doesn’t - they’re hooded, and some of them are already showing. 

“That’s - wha- Portland? I don’t know - where’s Maxine? What room?” 

The bus proceeds through the crowd and she looks beyond them: a large wall between two buildings, where a single man stands with a bucket of paint and a brush - how does it not run off in the goddamn rain? What kind of paint… No, it’s black, and thick, like tar. And it’s not a brush at all - he’s using his own damn hands. 

“I’ll be there…tell her I’ll drop by soon… I can’t right now, I’m seriously tied up - but…” 

The man is in his underwear, soaked, and the words he’s painted are starting to run, albeit still completely readable. Dark, lumpy finger streaks spell out the words. She watches as he steps back to admire his work, hands dripping black and stark against his pale, bony body. The bus is still moving slow as it clears the last remnants of the crowd. Her voice slows as she reads what he’s written.

FEAR THE FLOOD 

“...I’ll be there.”

*

A click, a puff and a low hiss. Cigarette lit. The flame swoops back in with a delicious clink and Maoro passes the lighter to the woman beside him. “Robbie?” 

“You know I don’t.” 

“Since when?” He pockets it. 

“Since - I started? It’s shit for your lungs.” 

He scoffs. Talks with the cig in his mouth, so his speech is matted. “Yeah, well - what’s life without a little risk?”

“I dunno.” She’s lounging in a deck chair, one leg on another, beer in hand. Looking up at the few stars peeking through the blanket. “Cancer’s not _that_ fun, Vinno.” 

He doesn’t respond. Just takes a long swig and breathes it out, feeling the stinging burn singe his sinuses on the way out. No, it’s not fun at all. She’s got the right idea. But he himself, never claimed to be a saint. 

“That was one hell of a roast chicken you did back there.” She smiles and takes a sip of her tepid low-calorie nonsense. Really, she only took one so she’d have a prop for conversation. She’d forgotten she doesn’t need props at Maoro’s house. She never did. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Spectacular. Back at base, we get turkey loaf, usually. Brisket if we’re lucky. Nobody cares about flavor.” 

He’s genuinely confused. “You can’t leave the compound and get food from outside?” 

“You can… but…” And she trails away. “Never mind. Delicious, is all I’m saying.” 

“Marleen’s recipe, really.” 

“Oh yeah? What is it?” 

He leans forward and takes the cigarette out with two fingers and holds it in the air, a sense of humble authority about him. “Y’see, you make a - a, she called it a compound butter. You mix butter with a whole bunch of stuff - herbs, pepper, salt, spices, what have you - and you take it - right? And you go _under the skin_ of the chicken-”

“ _Under the skin?_ ” 

“Under the skin, and you just sort of… rub it around. And then - you know - you glaze the outside and all.” 

“And that does it?”

“Does magic.” 

“Magic.” 

Robbie sips her beer with a small grin; Maoro’s at his best when he’s a bit tipsy. He looks to the horizon and takes another deep puff. 

Two deck chairs on a cozy balcony, two floors above ground, overlooking a small backyard and rows of houses and streetlamps and a winding road curling into dark thickets of trees. It’s nighttime, and it’s pleasant for once. Still wet, still a bit chilly, but there’s a pleasantly cool breeze, there’s no rain, and the clouds are breaking away a bit. Moonlight is a bit too much to ask, but it’s something. The deck light is off - they both prefer a little quiet shadow while they digest dinner. He looks up to the open gaps in the sky. 

“You… think that’s Mars?”

“Hmm?”

“Up there. See that one? Think it’s Mars?” 

She follows his gaze. “The, uh… the bright one, you mean?” 

“Yeah, kinda reddish-”

“-reddish? Yeah, that - um… maybe. Could be-”

“-Venus?”

“-Venus, yeah, could be. Who knows.” 

“Crisa would.” He nods and smiles. “She’s crazy about this stuff, you heard her at dinner.” 

“Yeah!” She sits up now, heaving a sigh and setting the bottle down. It’s really not to her taste. “Yeah, she’s - just brilliant. I don’t even know half the things she talks about. How is she… doing now? How’s it looking?” 

His smile fades. The stars aren’t so interesting any more. Looks down to the yard instead, where skid marks scar the mud and grass. “She’s… you know. It is what it is.” 

“Better? Worse?” She’s measuring her tone carefully. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is heavy with lines. Age before its due arrival. 

“Neither.” And he inhales again, burning orange against the inky blacks and greys of the suburb over his shoulder. The dim haze of city lights crawling in from the horizon does a passable job of painting out his face; harsh buzzcut and heavy jaw. 

“Wish I could do something about it.” She tries to make it sound like an offhand comment. A little laugh of exasperation; a tone of nonchalance. But it truth, it took a lot to get that out. She’s never expressed it before. Maoro is unfazed. 

“Yeah… so do I.” 

One more puff and the stick is burnt out; he buries it in a bowl of ash next to his chair. “So how’s work?” 

She laughs and shakes her head. What a blatant attempt at changing the subject. Not even a creative question. 

“Work is good. We get our contracts, a few good retainers.”

“So - what, you guys get hired by some - some billionaire and go and take out rival gang leaders?” He laughs. 

“No… Jesus, I wish. That’d be fun. No, we just - you know, corporate security, it’s mostly just standing around.” 

“Exhilarating.” 

“Yeah, well… we’re mostly scarecrow duty. Nobody pulls anything _because_ we’re there. Anyway - fuck work, I just got away. How was yours? You had to go in today? I thought you had it off.” 

He heaves the biggest sigh he can ever remember heaving. “Yeah… I took it off since you were coming. But - you know, I can’t really talk about it…” 

She smiles a little. “Looks like you need to.” 

He considers it. Trusting her is a no-brainer. There are few people he’d trust to the same extent. And to top it off, she’s right - he does need to get it off his chest. It’s been on his mind since he’d left the hospital. 

“There’s this… colleague of mine, she works under me. She’s in a… kind of a mess. It’s - god, it’s so…” And he sits up too, turning to look at her for the first time in a while. “It’s so bizarre. It’s so strange. She found a - a body, a corpse - in her apartment, last night apparently. She came home late, there it was. No break-in, no break-out. No ID on the body either, by the way - we’re putting some feelers out… it’s - my team didn’t find it, another division has the case - but _apparently…_ ” 

And he shakes his head again. The oddness of it all is really testing him. 

“... when they found her, the body had - no clothes on it, no wallet, no phone, nothing - just in her kitchen, and she claims… she says… she just found it when she got home. Doesn’t know how it got there, who it is, why.” 

Robbie nods slowly. “Jesus… that’s…” 

“And the worst part is… I believe her.” His eyes are heavy and red. Voice a little slurred. Words coming out with greater force, but he’s telling the truth. “I believe her, I want to know she’ll be alright - but it’s… it’s not - it’s not coming together. She’s got no alibi. I don’t know.” 

“Did they… search her place?” 

He nods. “They did. Nothing on the man. Nothing off. No signs of… oh, god.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. “She would never do this. She would never. Do this.” 

“Hey…” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “If you say she didn’t, she didn’t. Innocent until proven guilty, right? You gotta have faith.”

He nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“There’s always an answer, Vinno.” 

He breathes now, trying to slow down his racing thoughts, pulling them away from scenes of blood, of Maxine with a gun, or a knife, standing over her victim, a look of sadistic indifference in her eyes. And then he remembers how she was back at the hospital, talking with food in her mouth, impossible to topple. Steadfast. Was she really that much stronger than him? The thought amuses him, and saddens him. 

“So you were - what, at the precinct all day?” 

“Oh - no… well, yeah, I had to stop by, but - I was at the hospital.” 

“Hospital? Why?” 

“She hurt herself. She - fell over, tripped over the body, hurt her arm, passed out and got a concussion.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“Yeah - she’s okay, she’s up and talking, it’s not that bad.” 

“Tripped over the body?” Robbie leans away from Maoro, brows crossed. “She didn’t see it?” 

“It was dark when she came into her apartment,” Maoro parrots. “So she… testified.”

“It’d be hard to trip over it if she knew it was there.” 

He knows this. He’s told himself this a hundred times over the last twelve hours. But all it did, instead of reassure, was birth the disturbing and encroaching possibility that she tripped over it _because_ she knew it was there, to make it look like she didn’t. Faking an injury is child’s play; giving yourself real injuries - that would be harder to discredit. And the thought breaks him even more. He chooses not to express this one. Robbie is here after a long time. His sister doesn’t have many chances to get away. Tonight wouldn’t be burdened by this insanity. He just nods instead. 

“So… yeah. That was my day.” 

“Some fuckin’ day. Intense. Mine wasn’t even close.” 

“Yeah? What was yours?” Maoro reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the small glass table next to his chair. 

“Like… oh, here’s one. This is good, you ready? So you know the guy I’m dating-” 

“-Jason? Something?”

“-David, where’d you get Jason?” 

“They sound similar.” 

She pauses to process this while he lights up. 

“...Anyway, David tried to stop me coming down today.” 

“What?” Maoro sits up. 

“He was going off about - well, he’s not wrong…” She trails away, looking at the grass below them. “We got a prospective client - wants to hire us, but wanted to meet first. We were gonna do a presentation. I was supposed to be there. Today.” 

“Oh. So, what, he just tells you to cancel your plans?”

She nods with her lips tucked in, eyes wide and brows raised. “Pretty much. Well - all he did was tell me to do my job…” 

“Sounds like an asshole.” He looks away to exhale. 

“He’s a good guy.” There’s a hint of anger in her voice that he notes, but ignores. She doesn’t know it slipped out. 

“He’s not your boss.” 

“Oh, if my boss talked to me like that, we’d have a real problem.” She laughs drily. “David’s not so bad.”

“You really like him, huh?” 

She looks up now. What looks like an eagle is flying low above the chimneys and rooftops. It perches itself one a telephone pole and looks around, tense. It seems to look right at her for the briefest of moments. That’s fairly strange, since she can’t make out any details on it - too dark. And yet, it feels like she’s being watched. The bird is unnaturally still. 

“Yeah, well… nobody’s perfect, not me for sure. And David, you know, he does his best. Not sure if I can say the same for myself… Guess he thinks I’m worth the hassle. So we make do. End of the day, the good outweighs the bad.” 

“Path of least resistance? Didn’t think you’d go for that.” 

“Nobody goes for it. I just ended up on it, same as most people I know. Same as you.” 

“I am?” He grins with the cig dangling. “How about that… coulda fooled myself.” 

She crosses her legs and leans forward, stretching her back. “You think you’re not?” 

“If this is the… path of least resistance…” And he’s got the cig in his fingers again, twirling it gently. Watching the embers slowly eat away at it. The breeze picks up a bit and the orange glow burns brighter, faster, and dies down again as the air calms down. 

“... then I don’t wanna know what isn’t.” 

“It can always be better, it can always be worse.” 

And he chuckles. “You know, you always say that.” 

“Because it’s always true.” 

“Yeah… maybe it is. But if you’re watching your own house burn down, you’re not gonna be thinking about an earthquake.” 

She nods slowly, a smile on her face. “I guess the truth isn’t always useful.” 

“Not always, no.” 

She hasn’t taken her eye off the bird. _Is_ it an eagle? Seems to be. Could be anything, really. The most incredible thing, how it simply sits there, staring in her direction. Not a feather out of place. Even the breeze doesn’t seem to brush its form. As if it weren’t there at all. 

“You seeing this?” says Maoro, just as she’s about to say the same. She follows his little nod back up to the sky. There, the planet they’d been discussing before is bright and visible - right next to another one, just as large, just as bright, and just as red. 

“What the fuck…?”

There are two. Unnervingly close to one another. 

“Was that… there before?”

“No. No it was not.” 

She looks at Maoro, who’s transfixed. Cigarette hanging limp in one hand. “Holy hell…” 

“That’s not normal.” She’s trying to sound calm, not sure how it’s coming out. Two planets where there was only one a second prior. How is this possible? Was the second one just a very large star, much further away, that was obscured by clouds a few minutes ago? Perhaps. That could be it. 

“Could be a… a bigger star… further away. Right?” 

Maoro shakes his head. “Sky was clear in that spot. We would’ve seen it.” 

“So what the hell?”

He shrugs. “Who knows.” 

Maoro doesn’t look very fazed. It might be all the wine, making him think he’s seeing things. The buzz and slow speech reassures him that he’s simply drunk, and the universe hasn’t gone awry. And Robbie? Maybe she’s just playing along to make him feel better. She would, wouldn’t she? What a pair they are. He’s simply drunk. There is comfort for him, as he watches the newly-birthed twin of the red sentinel flicker like a lamp, before disappearing entirely.

“Heh!” He laughs. “You don’t see that every day.” 

She’s frozen to her spot, horrified. Not a drop of booze in her blood. Yet, she’s seeing it the same way he is. She looks down to the horizon. City lights are still strong enough to penetrate the thick gloom. Beams and orange hazes scar the horizon, spanning over onto them from the nearest intersection. She can even hear cars. The simple solution dawns on her - spotlights. There must be a movie theatre or something - nearby - and they’re shining spotlights up, and one got reflected off the clouds. 

The answer does not reassure her. It’s clumsy, and flawed, and poised to crumble at the first touch of inspection. She looks over at the telephone pole; the bird is gone, too. Like the vanishing Venus, it’s also gone with the wind. 

Don’t be ridiculous, it flew away. They do that, remember? 

“No… no you don’t.” 

Any answer would have to do. The alternative - having none - is something she wouldn’t entertain. 

“Hey, Vincent…”

“Hmm?” He rips his eyes away from the gentle vista above. 

She turns her face to look at him, and her face is gone. Eyes, nose and mouth are replaced with a gaping, cavernous, dark hole - one that stretches into infinity within itself, a singularity of gargantuan mass, distorting the little light around them on the deck. The world flickers and warps as he gazes into her, like the edges of vast bubbles touching and bleeding into one another. The sky, the rooftops behind her and the very air itself, dissolves and crumbles like sublimating gas; he can see everything fall to pieces, and bend, and writhe like boiling water. And she speaks, and her voice comes from the air itself, broken and shaken, like corrupted audio, sounding ancient, and lost, echoing through mountains that didn’t exist.

“You’re out of bleach.” 

_“Hnngh!”_

Maoro grunts and shakes awake. He’s looking at a pair of stinking feet under daylight. It’s the same deck chair. The sun is out. What time is it? For the briefest of moments, he’s swallowed by fear, and jerks to his right - but Robbie isn’t there. An empty chair. His heart is racing. Sweat grips his shirt. He rubs his face - an unkempt stubble grazes his skin. A dream… 

But it wasn’t a dream. Maoro looks around - it seems to be early morning. His legs have fallen asleep. Bad idea to fall asleep on the deck, but as he recalls from the night prior, the weather was irresistible, and he needed a break after the last few days. He gets up, slowly, and curls blood back into his toes. It’d be a while before he could walk straight. These deck chairs needed replacing. 

The deck is moist. Smell of wet grass parades the air. Checks his watch - 7:01 am. Like clockwork. Checks his phone - two missed calls, twelve assorted texts, some Google reminders. Battery - 12%. That’s no good. 

He blinks and rubs the crust off his eyes. Wipes drool off his chin. Why did he pass out here? It’s because Marleen had left. And taken Crisa for a little holiday. Yes - yes, that’s where everyone is. Marleen has taken Crisa to visit her uncle, and they’re both staying a couple of nights. Maoro remembers speaking to his brother about the arrangements. He’d been looking forward to having the house to himself for a while. 

“ _You’re out of bleach.”_

It wasn’t a dream. Most of it wasn’t. 

He can hear cars over the houses. The neighbor kids are playing in their yard. Sounds of splashing. Odd time to be playing in a pool. It’s been wet for days. Maybe they’re doing it ironically. Maybe they have a sense of humor. He walks some feeling back into his feet before coming back to the two chairs. Glances at the floor next to one. 

There’s Robbie’s beer bottle. She was here. She had watched him smoke and they’d spoken of stars and planets and roast chicken. It was real. He knew it. 

He also knows that the bottle’s been there for over a day. That’s how long it had been. Robbie had spent the night and gone back to Nevada the morning after. They’d gotten breakfast together. He’d taken a picture of them both. A selfie. Where was it? On his phone… 

10%. 

He scrolls through the gallery; doesn’t have to go far. There it is; the two of them, full of waffles and bacon and eggs. No sunlight on their faces, despite sitting by the window - the rain doing its job, as usual. 

She was here. 

_“You’re out of bleach, Vincent.”_

He slides open the balcony door and limps back inside. The house is quiet. A little messy. This room used to be his bedroom. Well - not just his. Those days are past. It’s a guest room now, but he never has guests.

Except for Robbie, of course. She’s always welcome. Not that she ever finds the time - except when she did, three days ago. He has the picture to prove it. She was here. It wasn’t just a dream.

But that dream… he staggers past the well-made bed and the empty drawers. He needs his bathroom. That’s downstairs. He steps out in the hall and feels his way down the narrow stairs, one hand sliding along a smooth wooden banister. The house is warm, and quiet, and the paints and carpets are all cool shades of blue and grey. They work well against the rich polished wood of the floors. His comfort levels here aren’t optimal, but he makes do. Being in loose, dirty clothing, being unkempt and unshowered, being without his badge - these are all uncomfortable. Still, everyone needs to come home someday. Sooner or later. 

Here’s the bathroom. He flicks the light on to see himself: horribly messy, tired and wet. A little sniffly. Probably from sleeping outside all night. He squeezes paste into a tube and goes to work on his teeth. 

_“You don’t see that every day.”_

Can’t take his mind off that dream. So much of it was real. He ponders calling Robbie to confirm the details of their conversation. But she never picks up in any case - and this would be a bad reason to bother her. All for a silly dream? Come on, now. 

_Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz._

Brush in mouth, shirt halfway off, he feels his phone vibrate. What now? He has to shower. He has to charge this damn thing before going into work. Would he even have time? It’s already past seven… 

“Hello-” His voice barely makes it out. Clears his throat. “ _Hrrm_ \- ’Ello?” 

“Did I wake you, sargeant?” Captain Ramsey. 

“Not at all."

"You didn’t care to tell me about Caulfield?” 

Maoro sighs. He really can’t, this early. “I… that’s, that’s Ray’s division. He’s gotta tell you, not me.” 

“You owed me an explanation after the talk we had last month. Or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t forgotten.” 

“I told you to work this out, I told you keeping her was a bad idea - here we are now, right, Vic?” 

Maoro grips the side of the sink, heavy breaths to keep him steady. He turns a tap on and gets some cold water on his face as he speaks. “ _Here we are_? Captain, with all due respect, we’re nowhere. Does the 14th have a coroner’s report?” 

Silence from the other end. “Not yet-”

“-Not yet, right. It’s two days into this, does Ray have any leads on the body?” 

“That’s not for you to know, sargeant.” 

Unnecessary flexing. That only pisses Maoro off more. “It’s well within my right to ask, captain. And I’m gonna make an educated guess and say he doesn’t. So no subpoena for Caulfield.” 

“Subpoenas? Who’s talking about subpoenas?” In his office, Ramsey’s lounging in his swivel chair with a sizeable gummy worm dangling between two fingers, fingers that craved the rigidity of a cigar over the flaccid squishiness they’d been given. But once you quit, you quit. Right? 

“Vic, it doesn’t matter if the judge is on your side. Marakeith does not care for press. Until this is sorted to a trial-” 

“-we can’t make that assumption-” 

“-Vic, this isn’t gonna be an open-and-shut. We’re not gonna be sending out goddamn funeral invitations in three days. She has no alibi. Use your fucking brain, would you, please?”

Maoro says nothing. Retaliation at this point would be simple noise. He’s been failing to reassure himself of Maxine’s innocence, let alone Ramsey. But Robbie knew what to say. 

“Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that the point?” 

“Yeah, look - as I was saying, the judge doesn’t care for press. We’ve had inquiries from some independents already, _and_ The Stranger. When things blow up, and they will, we need to show we didn’t - you know, hesitate. People want results, they don’t care what they mean. Are you following me?” 

“No, I am not.” Maoro’s growing habit of rubbing his forearm to calm his fury is taking shape again. 

“You really want me to talk to you like you’re a kid, Vic?” Ramsey sounds angry too. “You really want to hear it like that? Alright, fine by me. You’re being ordered to suspend Caulfield indefinitely. I don’t want her on the force. Is that clear?” 

“Understood, captain. Will that be all?” His voice is as flat as he can make it. He puts the captain on speakerphone and begins stripping. 

“I mean do it now. Today. I want an update from you ASAP. Got it?” 

“Got it.” 

“Good. Now, uh - what else… Oh - jury’s still out on the forensics account for McGrier. I’ll be coming by today after lunch to brush up. Have a brief ready.” 

“Nothing new to brief you on.” 

“Really? Nothing?” 

“I wouldn’t make that up, would I?” Maoro pulls back the shower curtain. “Leads have run dry. We’re taking some new angles. When we strike, I’ll call you.” 

Ramsey’s struggling to reorganize his schedule. “Oh… well… huh… we- you- yes, you’d better… update me…” 

Maoro peels off his socks. Yeesh - they’re rancid. “Always, captain. Will that be all? I think my phone’s about to die.” 

“Well then… go charge it, Vic.” 

“That’s the idea.” 

_Click._

The phone sits by the sink, life bleeding out, while he showers. The water is hot. A bit too hot, but he doesn’t mind. It makes a good scalding purge of sweat and grime and groggy eyes. Puts both hands on the tiled wall, presses in. Feels their rigidity. Solid. Unwavering. Sure. The wall is steady, and real, and present. There is no deception, no brick out of place. All is right with the world, so long as his hands remain on this wall. 

The ground beneath his feet is less reassuring. The dream had dealt him a feeling of uneasiness. Something amiss - aside from the obvious, of course. No, something else, something present even as he stood awake. A feeling of missing pieces, a puzzle disjointed. Like an incorrigible asymmetry. He can’t put a finger on it. But it doesn’t feel safe. 

Maybe he should take today off. No - not even a question. But he would have to call Robbie… soon. It’s worth the call. Even if she doesn’t pick up. 

He dresses faster than he ever remembered dressing. The shower is wet and empty, the phone in his pocket and charger in his bag, and the door locks behind him and the car beeps awake, and he rolls out onto asphalt under a gloomy morning sun, desperate to blink away the image of Maxine Caulfield, smoking gun in hand, standing over her prey. 

*****

“Okay, Maxine… that cast has to stay for a while, we’ll evaluate you in… four weeks. Not too bad of a fracture. Ice packs are good, no direct contact, wrap it up - I’d also recommend peas if you can get that.”

Alyssa smiles. She’s been in and out with Maxine for a good few days now. She’s had time to practice her smile with her. Maxine doesn’t seem to mind. She can smell it on other patients - their silent judgement and cold walls when they learn, even subconsciously, that she’s putting on an act. Never able to break those walls. Here, there are none to break. She’s comfortable. 

“Ice and peas. Got it.” Maxine smiles back. 

“What else - neuro’s good, cog checks out - I know we went over your CT, are there any other questions you had?” 

“No… it’s fine.”

“Now, Maxine…” and she lowers her voice to what she hopes is a sensitive inflection. “We spoke to your therapist about your… condition. Your amnesia. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But are you doing any - any psychotherapy for that?” 

Maxine is sitting there, in her gown, head still bandaged and eyes heavy. “No.” 

“Would it… be appropriate of me, to recommend someone for you?” 

She shrugs a little - not too hard, she’s still numb and her skull is sore. But the idea doesn’t hit her well, nor does it graze her. It’s just nothing she’s ever really entertained. Not the first time anyone’s told her, though. 

“Great!” Alyssa is genuinely pleased. “I’ll have her call you. Oh - no pressure, though. Just a suggestion. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Great. Is - someone coming to…?” She’s a bit hesitant to ask. “Where… will you be staying?” 

“Oh - Warren. He’s letting me stay at his place until it’s all clear. You’ve met him, right?”

“Of course I have, great guy. So - I’ll have to get back to it, I’ll have Lydia get your clothes back for you. Take care, Maxine.” 

She holds out a hand and Maxine shakes it. Alyssa looks like she has more to say, but thinks better of it. One last smile - a fake one again, this time - and she’s off. 

Maxine swings her legs off the bed and tests out today’s walk. Much better - even with a heavy head, she’s quick to get in motion. Walks up to the small window afforded to her in the private room. 

She’s floors above the street below. Wide lanes. Where cars usually line up, there’s a throbbing clamour of people blocking the intersection. Waving banners. She scans them closely - some have face paint. And she remembers. 

_“I saw these - protestors, I guess? I don’t know what their cause was - on the bus this morning. Right after Maoro told me you were here…”_

Miriam had come to visit her a few hours before Warren had, all those days ago. She’d spoken about seeing people with painted faces blocking streets. About a man’s graffiti warning of a flood. She checks her phone - Miriam’s last text was yesterday. Checking up on her. Maxine appreciates her care. She likes her presence. 

What she doesn’t like - and it’s been this way since the incident - is this nagging feeling of something out of place. She can sense a presence in the vicinity, a proximity she cannot gauge, which moves, and swells, and contracts. But it’s there, and it does not belong. And it feels all too familiar, at the same time. The motion of this force reverberates through every tremor of existence; she can feel it flow through her fingers, like water that didn’t exist, or wind that disturbed nothing else but her. Looking out through the towering buildings of the city, her eyes graze over narrower streets, alleys and walkways, corners of subtle secrecy and discreet paths, where single lamps and smoky darkness hide the city’s secrets, hushed between bowed heads in low whispers. This presence moves through them - or rather, had at one point. 

Her days away from work had given Maxine time to piece together how she’d been feeling. Something needed her attention. It feels… consistent. Always there, but sometimes strong, and sometimes weak. She places a hand on the window - the glass is cold. It leaves a print. The city below is trying to speak. 

“Mornin’, Maximoo!”

She turns, beaming. “Morning, Lydia!” 

Lydia places folded clothes on her bed, and a plastic bag with her shoes on the floor. Looks up at Maxine with two hands on her hips. “We-he-hell - look at you! I can’t wait to kick yo’ ass outta here.” 

“You can pretend you’re not gonna miss me,” Maxine retorts, grinning. 

“Oh, you sure as shit I will! An you betta miss me. Come ‘ere. Come ‘ere. Siddown.” Lydia pulls Maxine to the bed. She was hoping to stretch her legs, but it’s fine; she can sit for a few minutes more. Lydia takes her free hand in both of her own. 

“You listenna me, Moo,” she starts. “I gotch yo number, I’ll give you a call. You _save me down_ in yo phone _._ I know-” She lowers her voice and glances at the open door. Maxine does too. 

“I know you into some _nasty mess._ All the damn cops in n’ outta here, past few days - I gotta tell you, ain’t no way you done shit! Look at you! No fuckin’ way.” 

Maxine tries to say “thank you” but there’s a lump in her throat. She smiles instead. 

“So if there’s anything you need after gettin’ outta here… you _call me,_ an’ I mean _anything,_ got it?” 

She nods. “Ye-yeah. Thanks… Thank you, Lydia. Really. You’ve been amazing.” 

“Mmm-mmm, I gotta look out fah my favorite people.” She rubs Maxine on the back and leans in for a one-armed hug. “You gonna be all right. Ya hear me? You gonn’ be just fine, Max.” 

“I…” Maxine didn’t expect this. Over these short few days, Lydia was a special presence. A person doing everything in her power to make other lives better - perhaps, it may seem, to push something down within herself, to color over darker walls. Maxine can tell how much more Lydia has to say, if only she could find someone willing to listen. There was a time when Maxine would’ve listened to every word. She still can; she still wants to. But she doesn’t remember how to pull it out of them anymore. If someone wants to talk, she’ll be there. But if they don’t - she’s powerless. 

“I hope so.” 

She reciprocates the hug with her free arm. Using both would’ve made it better. She has no complaints - she was in dire need of this. How often is she in dire need of this? _Come on, Max…_

Lydia pulls back and gets up. “Now, you gonn’ get dressed and go on home - who comin’ to pick you up? Your ‘brother’?” She etches quotation marks around the word. Maxine giggles. 

“Yeah, Warren’s coming. In about -” She checks the clock on the wall. It’s just past eleven in the morning. “In about an hour.”

“Alright. Imma give you a call soon. Hang tight, Moo.” 

Shuts the door behind her, leaving her alone once more. 

Maxine gets up to change into her old clothes - freshly laundered and pressed. She feels the warm, dry fabric and panics - what did they do to the jacket? It’s at the bottom of the pile. Jacket, jacket - here. 

The old leather piece is worn, tattered, ancient. Many parts have been re-patched, stitched back, new zippers and buttons. She picks it up and holds it with both hands until it falls out of its casual folds. There’s inevitably nothing special about it. Just plain black, with wrinkled folds and stretch marks and fading color. It’s older than she can remember. She brings it to her face. Buries her nose in it, and breathes in. It smells good. Properly dry-cleaned. She’s relieved they didn’t fuck with it. She doesn’t know what she’d do if the jacket was ruined by the negligence of hospital staff. Carefully, Maxine places it next to the stack of folded clothes, and gets dressed. 

_Knock knock._ “Miss Caulfield?” Muffled voice from beyond the closed door. 

She’s just putting her jacket on. Checks the clock - only ten past eleven. Who could that be? It’s a man’s voice. 

“Yes, come in.” 

The door to her room swings open, but they don’t come in. Two men in pressed suits are here. She’s never seen them before. Both tall, both ambiguously-aged. One of them’s bald - shiny, smooth, gleaming bald. Like he took a floor buffer to it. The other one has a checkered brown tie. Odd choice to go with his smooth grey suit and satin white shirt. Or maybe it’s a good choice? Maxine reminds herself how little she knows about men’s fashion. Probably best not to judge. 

“Uh, good morning, ma’am,” the bald one states. Maxine continues pushing her arms through the sleeves. 

“Good morning.” 

She hasn’t broken eye contact. The bald one is a bit unnerved. His partner notices this too. 

“I’m detective Abramovich, this is detective Sharma,” he continues. “We’re from the 14th.” 

“Oh!” Maxine puts it together. “You’re with Voyeres?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

She sits down on her bed. “What can I… do for you?” 

He cracks a wide, artificial smile. “We were hoping we could ask you a few questions. We’d like to talk about the, uh - the strange circumstances surrounding your… accident.” 

She’s not one to ask if she’s under arrest - she obviously isn’t. Maxine observes them both. They seem anxious. Uptight. She can’t imagine why. 

“I’m waiting for a friend.” 

“The sooner you cooperate, the sooner this is over,” says Sharma from behind Abramovich. His tone isn’t nearly as faux-friendly. 

“We can drive you back here when we’re done!” Abramovich reassures. Maxine knows that’s bullshit. She knows she can refuse if she wants to. But she also knows that insisting on putting this off will make her look worse later. 

_Sorry, Warren. I’ll make it up to you…_

“Sure.” She grabs her bag - full of items she’d requested be brought from her apartment; a kindness by Maoro. She’d already packed it the night before - tired of this place. It’s got her laptop, a small notebook, an ancient pencil case ripping at the seams. Charger cables and headphones. Survival supplies. She slides on her white sneakers. The detectives hastily step aside as she walks out the door. 

Seattle looks worn. She’s in the back of their car. Shops and intersections are zooming by. People are pillars, slow steps and bowed heads, flying through her field of view. She wishes she could see them. Their individual faces. Read the lines carving their eyes, the aged white hair peeking out from the black. What worries plagued the common human? Bills? Job hunting? Exams? Family? Groceries? They intrigue her. She can’t remember back very far in her own life - there’s a vast ocean of fog, impenetrable, at the edge of her conscious self - but she feels she’s always been curious about people. They seem like wells, deep and cavernous, full of mystery and tragedy and wonder. A part of her wants to walk up to them and ask them about themselves. But people don’t do that, and she certainly wouldn’t, given the opportunity. Has she, ever? 

The idea of Alyssa’s referral seems more alluring. 

Sweeping washes of broken, bleak sun paint the roads between buildings. When she can, she spots the sky - ever gloomy. This rain was here to stay, but for how long? 

Her phone vibrates. 

_Hey Moo its Lydia save my number :)))_

Funny, she said she’d call, not text. Maxine doesn’t care. Once her name is saved, she notices another in the chat log. Warren. 

_I’ll come by tomorrow around noon, then. Putting together a bomb meal. You better be hungry._ (─‿‿─)

She hadn’t replied. Hadn’t confirmed. But she did agree to noon - but maybe she should let Warren know… let him know she’d be late. 

_Hey, something came up, sorry. I’ll be late. Don’t pick me up. I’ll come to your place._

Doesn’t send it. Her finger’s hovering above Send. Should she send it? She doesn’t owe him explanations, does she? 

No, but it’s common courtesy. 

Yes, but Warren might… have unrealistic expectations of where this is going. Maxine is afraid of that. If she starts showing him the kind of attention he expects, he’ll pull her into his world again. She wanted out when she signed their divorce. She doesn’t want back in. Even if she loves him. 

She puts the phone back in her pocket. Warren might be late to pick her up himself. He’s tardy, right? And besides, she might be done here soon enough. It’s fine. There’s no need for such prompt correspondence. It’s not like they’re married. 

“So… Maxine Caulfield.” 

She’s in an interrogation room. Four walls and a ceiling lamp, a flat white table and three chairs. One of the walls is a mirror. The two detectives have their hands on the desk, and expect her to do the same. Simple clock on the wall, next to a PA speaker and an alert siren. There’s a camera pointed at her on a tripod, red light on and glaring. She’s unreasonably disturbed by it; can’t gauge why. The room reminds her of a feeling she never imagined she had - claustrophobia. Like her arms and legs are bound, and yet they’re free, and she’s free to go whenever she wants. She reminds herself of these facts to keep steady. They’re not working well. She keeps glancing at the camera, fixed on her. Her heart beats a little faster. 

“Is it okay if I call you Max?” Abramovich is being friendly again. Sharma is sitting more casually, laid back, and looking at Maxine with narrowed eyes. She really would prefer being called Maxine, when it comes to these strangers. But let’s not appear difficult in front of the camera. She shrugs. 

“Great. How’s your arm, how are you… holding up?” He’s practically leaning over the table. She doesn’t mind, but notes his feigned interest. 

“Much better, thanks. It’s been a rough week.” 

“Oh, I can imagine…” He goes back to the file. She narrows her eyes a bit, amused. _Can you?_

“So, Max… you mentioned you’re waiving your right to an attorney for this inquiry?” 

“I’m waiving my right to an attorney for this inquiry,” she repeats robotically, glancing at the camera. She knows what they need. 

“That’s fine, just a few quick questions…” The detectives have a folder before them. “Could you tell us where you were on… Saturday, October 10th?” 

Ah, yes. Here it is. Maxine nods and begins. “Sure. I was at work.” 

“Work, is where?” Sharma looks unnecessarily defensive. 

“The precinct on Thomas and 9th.” 

“Bit strange to work on the weekend, isn’t it?” Abramovich asks. 

“Hmm… maybe.” 

They glance at each other and chuckle. “So - why were you?” 

“I had some overdue work from the week before. I don’t like Mondays cluttered.” 

“And what kind of overdue work was this?”

Maxine has patience. She knows she does. “Um… well, it’s - off the top of my head, I - some testimony reports I had to read, had to sort through scene photos and… prepare them for imagery.”

“imagery?”

“The imagery and render division. They do our reconstructions and… photo extrapolation.” She knows they’re detectives, but can’t help feel that she’s speaking Greek to them. In truth, she barely ever has anyone to talk to about her job. The thought is sudden, and heavy. _No one? Really?_

“So,” Sharma continues, “when did you leave your home on Saturday?”

“Around 7 in the morning.” 

“And when did you get home?” Abramovich now. Are they alternating on purpose? It’s almost cute. 

_I used to talk to Warren about my job… yeah. But…_

“I got home… god, I can’t remember.” Maxine strains to think if she even checked the time. “I remember… feeling… tired? I - OH!” 

They both jump in their seats. She pulls out her phone and begins searching through it. They’re not sure what to expect. 

“... Max, are you-?” 

“Here.” It’s a log of recordings. A long list. “I do weekly voice logs. Here, see - this one, the last one I did - it was on the night it happened. I made that one right before leaving work.” 

Abramovich takes her phone with a gentle “May I?” and begins scrolling down. “Oh, there are… a lot of these… what do you - talk about? If I may.” 

She’s stumped that this would be his first question. “Oh, um - nothing, just - whatever’s on my mind. Personal stuff.” 

“Any, uh…” Sharma’s looking for a way to phrase this right. “Any particular reason, you do this? Or is it just a hobby?” 

“My-” She stops. These next words could paint her in a very different light. They might even cement any suspicions these men have. But again, she reminds herself - holding back the truth will work against her in the long run. The truth is pure. Always. 

“My therapist recommended them. As a - an… emotional exercise.” 

Abramovich puts the phone down to share another glance with his partner. “Your therapist?”

“I’m surprised that’s not on your file.” She laughs, hoping to come off more relaxed. “Yeah, I see one.” 

“About what?” Sharma’s a bit too forward; he regrets it almost immediately. 

“That’s completely… not your business.” Maxine is almost saddened that he would make her say that. She doesn’t like conversations like this. 

“You’re totally right, Max!” Abramovich grins wide and picks up her phone again. “We don’t need to know about that - for now. But this… recording…” 

He checks the publishing time of the last record. 2:50 AM on October 11th. 

“Wow. 2:50 AM is when you… stopped recording. That’s AM, as in the 11th. You stayed late. If you say that you left work after recording this… you stayed very late.” 

“Yeah… it was pretty late,” she says coolly as Sharma confirms the time. “I was by myself so I took my time with the work.” 

“Staying at work, up to nearly… 3 AM… on a Satur - a Sunday. On a Sunday.” Sharma is borderline flabbergasted. “You - you know, that’s unheard of. In my fifteen years on this side of the table, that’s completely unheard of.” 

“How long did you spend on _this_ side?” Maxine’s voice is blissfully free of scorn, but her soft, heavy eyes cut deep when she doesn’t break her gaze with him. He suspects from her tone that she’s asking it as a joke, to break the ice - but he finds himself unable to answer. Of course, there was an answer. 

“Do you mind if we listen to this?” Abramovich points to the screen with a long, skinny finger. “It’s not very long, I can see.” 

“Um…” She does mind. 

“Of course - completely up to you.” He puts up both hands and shakes his head. “We’re just talking. Just helping each other, that’s all.” 

She sighs. It’s personal. Completely her own. But she knows there’s nothing earth-shattering on it. She also doesn’t see how it would help them in any way. _But… whatever. Just give them what they want, Max. Get this over with. Sooner this is over, sooner you can see Warren…_

“Sure.” 

Abramovich does a jolty head movement with wide eyes and raised brows, as if to ask for confirmation for something scandalous. “If you’re good with it?” 

“Go ahead. It’s fine.” 

“Well, okay.” And he makes sure the volume is raised for the camera. Presses play. 

_“_ _Weekly log, entry 151... this is Maxine Caulfield, October 11th, 2026, 2:43 AM. The week has been... usual, nothing much to add… The new testimonies proved inadmissible for the McGrier case, but... we all saw that coming.”_

A pause. They can hear her breathing into the mic. 

_“I feel... I feel upset that the coffee machine hasn't been fixed yet, even though I... I submitted a com-plaint…”_

Maxine feels her face go red. What’s so embarrassing about that? Nothing, idiot. You’re just venting. Venting about mundane shit; everyone does that. After another, longer pause, they hear her clear her throat.

_“There might be some discord on the team I can't really isolate yet. That's... that's a new thing, yeah. Jun isn't being agreeable lately, he tried to hide his breakup but failed. I wonder if anyone else - noticed, they could give him advice. I've told him not to bring that to work. What else...?”_

Sharma makes some notes. She bites her lip. This couldn’t possibly mean anything. Just relax. He’s only doing his job. 

_“I should go home.”_

And then the longest pause, still. Abramovich taps the screen to check the progress bar, and gives Maxine a glance before looking back at the phone. There’s still a good chunk left. 

_“And my PJ’s.”_

She wants to kick herself. What the fuck does that even mean? Who says half the statement in their own head? Lots of people, probably… but she doesn’t even remember what the other half of that sentence was. What, and your PJ’s? What, Max? 

_“Oh... wait, there's something. I might be moving to Portland next month. New unit is opening in one of the offices there, and they need a... was it, a chief toxicologist? No, less specific... anyway, it seems like a good job. Probably pays well. I didn't ask Maoro the details. I probably will on Monday.”_

The red square pause button pops back into a blue triangle. It’s over. 

“Well, uh… that was-” 

“Pretty useless,” Maxine finishes with a shadow of a smile. “I knew it would be. Those are just to get some thoughts out.” 

“Yes, well - it helps us confirm some things, not all.” 

“Could you tell us what you did after recording this?” Sharma asks. 

“I… left the office, drove home. Came to my apartment. I… wanted some water. I didn’t turn the light on, I was… really tired. So I just felt my way to the kitchen-” 

“You felt your way to the kitchen?” Abramovich interrupts. 

“I - yes. I followed the wall with my hands.” 

“Okay. Go on.” 

“... And I was about to get to the sink, when I tripped over… whoever that was.” Her face falls. She looks down. “Does anyone know… who it was?” 

“You tripped, and then what?” 

“I, um - I called the police.” 

“And then?” 

“... Then they showed up. And I… I passed out. Too exhausted, I guess.” 

“And how did you get your injuries?”

“My elbow, that’s when I first tripped. My head - I guess I hit the floor on it when I passed out.” 

More notes. More scribbles. She’s losing patience. Her phone vibrates - probably poor Warren. He’ll understand. If she can just get of here, and call him - he’ll understand. She’s starting to regret not sending that text. What was the earthly issue in simply letting him know? _Stupid Max._

“And to be clear, you were alone for this entire sequence of events? Nobody saw you, nobody met you… anything?” 

“No, I have no alibi,” she translates. “It’s all true. I know how it sounds, I don’t care.” 

“You… don’t care how a jury might see this?” Abramovich’s smile gets wider when the conversation steers into shakier waters.

“I know what the truth is.” She keeps repeating that to reassure herself more than anything. They seem unsatisfied. A page turns in the folder.

“So!” Abramovich claps his hands together. “You’ve worked in Vincent Maoro’s division, for… ooh, nearly six years now. How is it?” 

“How… is what?” 

“How’s working there?” He’s still got his smile up. She sighs and leans back. 

“It’s - fine. Great. I have good friends there.” 

“Would you consider your boss, sergeant Maoro, a… ‘good friend’?” Sharma pipes in. 

She doesn’t care for his tone. “He’s my boss. I respect him.” 

“Right, that’s great just-” Abramovich glances at the file again. “It looks like he might be more than just your boss - given that, you know, he hired you despite your… condition.” 

Maxine tries to keep her face blank. How did these assholes know about that? It’s their job, of course. Detecting, and all. Fuck. 

“He hired me because I’m good at my job.” 

“Oh, we can see that, but maybe… your friend Maoro overlooked a few things in your history? Some that may question your credibility?” 

“My… ‘condition’ doesn’t affect my work.” 

“No?” Sharma pulls the file to him and flips two pages. “Roughly a month ago, on the 18th of September, you passed out while conducting witness interviews for a homicide investigation… is that correct?” 

“I - I just got dizzy.” Keep your voice steady, Maxine. Don’t get upset. You’re on camera. God, the fucking camera… why does it feel-?

“And earlier this week, you were suspended from the force, is that correct?” 

“Leave of absence.” 

Sharma shrugs, eyebrow raised. “Seems like an overreaction to put you out of work, with a track record as good as yours, over a… a dizzy spell.” 

“Very odd,” Abramovich joins. “Are you sure there might not be another reason?” 

She doesn’t like where this is going. There’s the same faint pressure in her skull, the shortness of breath. The very attack they’re talking about. She can feel its first stirrings. Why? 

“Like, say, for example… that you have a… how do I put this, a history? With criminality?” 

“My - my record is clean, detective.” Palms are sweaty. He chuckles. “Oh - yes, you’re very clean. No, not what I meant.” He flips three pages. 

“Says here, uh… back in 2013, you - at the age of eighteen, still in school - helped with an investigation in… Arcadia Bay, that’s in Oregon? Long way from home, Max. The, uh - the Rachel Amber case? Missing girl… and you were... involved in the arrest of one Nathan Prescott and one Mark - woah!” 

He’s stumped when he looks up at her. She’s sweating, eyes red, breathing heavy. Clutching her shirt. 

“Are - are you alright, Caulfield?” Sharma sits up straight. She shakes her head. She’s struggling to draw breath. Grips the table with her free hand. 

“Do you need some water? What’s wrong-?” 

She nods frantically. 

Abramovich motions to his partner to do the deed and he swiftly leaves the room. Between broken, charred breaths, Maxine manages words. 

“I - I can’t - don’t -” She’s waving her arm at him frantically to get the point across, heaving for air. 

“Okay, calm down, Max. We’re not going there. Just - he’s getting the water, it’ll be here soon.” He’s a little shaken - she looks genuinely on the verge of passing out. On camera. This would be bad. 

“Red wine… yellow s-sand… white… plate… blue dress…” She’s whispering, head bowed low, being impossibly quiet, but she knows he can hear her, and knows this is all on camera. “Red wine… yellow sand-” 

The door swings open and Sharma walks in with a paper cup. Sets it on the desk. Maxine grabs and chugs. She needs more. Much more. Her throat is still dry. But this would do. Beyond her sight, Abramovich motions to Sharma to slow the questioning down; says in hushed tones to avoid speaking of her past. He makes a note of this. 

“There’s also something else,” he whispers back. “Coroner’s report just came through.” 

Abramovich looks back at Maxine. She doesn’t look any better. His first instinct is to ask her to stay here while they go check the results. But can she even stay? She looks on the verge of another accident. 

“Max-Maxine?” His voice is low, and gentle. “Are you alright? Can you talk to us?” 

She’s just breathing, shuddering, head still buried in shadow, one hand on the desk. Slowly, she looks up. Nods. 

“Look, why don’t you go wait outside - we’ll take you back to the hospital, and-” 

Shakes her head. “N-no - no hos-hospital - just - need to l-lea-ve…” And she forces herself to her feet. Sharma’s first instinct is to help her up - she might actually fall over. But he remembers the camera. And why they’re all in this room. 

“Are you sure? Will you be-” But Abramovich can’t finish. She stumbles past them and wrenches the door open. She’s gone. 

Abramovich turns the camera off. 

“Well, that was a fucking disaster.” Sharma drops his oily, high-horse interrogator voice and relaxes to let out his natural raspy tone, wrecked by cigarettes. “What was that about? You see that in her file?” 

“I only saw, uh - amnesia? Intermittent - no, ‘dissociative’... ‘thematic’... It’s a whole… different thing.” Abramovich shrugs, getting to his feet. “Think she faked it?”

He shrugs too. “I wouldn’t, uh - just put a pin on that. Can’t say. You?” 

“I believe her.” He’s looking at the door through which she just left. “She’s believable. But when is that enough?” 

“Let’s get through this report first, I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves.” 

Abramovich takes the camera off its tripod and folds its legs. “Heh. Report is four days late and the body’s still on ice with no ID. I wouldn’t mind getting ahead for once.” 

*

Maoro cracks the notches in his spine with some well-deserved attention, arms reaching behind him to clasp fingers together. He hasn’t had breakfast. Phone’s plugged in. It’s 8 in the morning. No coffee, either. He’d have to get both in his system, soon. But first - the elephant in the room. 

He’s standing at his window, watching cars roll by on sploshy streets. Wrenches his gaze from the wet speckled glass. It’s not raining at the moment - that can change any time. He’s getting sick of this. He misses autumn last year. It was far more dry. 

Picks up the phone to dial Max’s number. Is this a good time? Will she even be awake? She’s in the hospital with a concussion, maybe he shouldn’t - fuck it. If she doesn’t pick up, he’ll call later. No harm in trying. 

It’s ringing. _Please be asleep._

“Hi Maoro!” 

Sigh. Of course she’s fucking awake. No beating around the bush - just rip off this bandaid. “Hi, Maxine. I have bad news.” 

“What’s - yeah?”

“The cap - I, uh - I have to take you off the team. For now. Take a leave of absence. Yes, I’m - I can’t do any - yeah. Sorry. I am. We’ll talk later. Rest up.” 

He hangs up before she can even say goodbye. That could’ve been worse… right? 

Get your mind off her. He speed-dials another office on the floor with the desk phone. 

“Firoza, a word in my office.” 

“Sure.” 

He pulls up his cell, still plugged in, and browses Uber Eats. What’s good for breakfast? What does he feel like? What’s even open this early? CJ’s Eatery. Old favorite. No point being adventurous when he’s this famished. Puts in an order for a classic country skillet - with extra sausage. And you know what? An extra egg. Fuck it. And coffee, of course. 

_CJ’s Eatery is preparing your order._

And he’s a little feverish. He sniffs and feels his nose clogging up. Should’ve brought his nasal spray. Sleeping outside in this wet weather took its toll. Shouldn’t have done that. 

He walks around his desk and yanks open a drawer. Some photographs, a stack of files, two gleaming pens - one with a missing cap - and a small bottle of dark red liquid. The label’s facing down. Forgetting why he’s looking in here, he picks up the bottle to observe. Always a fond touch when he’s handling this. The dusty black label makes him nostalgic for a land far, far away. 

_Chairman’s Reserve: SPICED Original_

Faithful companion. He only drinks at work when no one’s here to judge. It’s a poor habit. If Ramsey found out, he’d be absolutely beside himself. Maoro chuckles and puts it back in. Maybe, when the coffee arrives… 

Ah, yes - here it is. Aspirin. This, everyone should have in their office. Puts the bottle on his desk. 

Well, since he has a beverage plan - let’s just wait. Aspirin, rum and coffee. Christ, what a start to the day.

Two knocks. 

“Come in.” 

A woman enters. She’s taller than Maoro - no small feat - with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. Ashen black hair tied up in a bun, t-shirt tucked into cargo pants, tucked into boots. 

“What’s up?” A little out of breath. She takes a seat. Of course, he doesn’t need her to ask first. 

“Ramsey wants a briefing on McGrier. I told him to stay put but I suspect he’ll stop by anyway.” He sits down too. 

Firoza throws her hands up. “There’s nothing to brief, Vic. We already presented-” 

“-I know, and I told him that. Knowing him, he wants to breath down your neck. So tidy up."

She lets out a sigh. "I can't imagine reporting to him."

"You might not have to, in a few years."

She's puzzled. "Not have to what?"

"Imagine." He grabs the aspirin bottle and starts twirling it between fingers. "I don't know… way things are looking, I might be out of here soon. You might get this dingy old office."

"The only way I'm letting you leave is with a promotion," Firoza hisses. Maoro laughs. 

"Anyway - I also wanted to see where we are for myself, on McGrier. Been out of the loop lately with this whole… other thing."

She's not offended, but pretends to be. "What, you don't trust me either, now?"

"Oh, I don't trust anyone, it's my MO," he plays along. 

“Well, anything new I have is on the server. I can show you right now.” She gets up and walks over to his side of the desk. “Move.” Ejects him from his own chair and takes a seat. Maoro puts both hands in his pockets and watches. 

She puts in her passcode to access her end of the server. There are three active cases on her plate. He feels a little bad for pulling her out of her office for this - just a little. 

“McGrier… McGrier… documents… here, see this?” A photo from the crime scene: It’s a picture of a chest of drawers with the top one pulled out a little. Two single plastic roses in little vases sit atop, over an embroidered napkin of sorts. A streak of blood taints the pleasant orange wood. 

“That’s the shelf with the false bottom,” Maoro recalls. “Miriam found out about that, same day we were called.” 

“Yeah, with the little diary in it - I looked through every page. It’s just regular logs. Grocery bills, to-do lists.”

“So what’re you saying? Red herring?” 

She shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. Why would you leave a boring logbook in a hidden drawer, right? Either it’s a false alarm or I didn’t look at the book hard enough… I can’t leave the office now but I’d love to take another look at this place… if he has a false bottom drawer, he could have a lot more.” 

“Let me look at the diary. Put those scans on my access, would you?” 

She scoffs before proceeding. “You really don’t trust me. Sad.” 

“Trust, but verify, sweetheart.” He checks his watch. Then the phone. 

_Alex has picked up your order and is on her way!_

“Did you have breakfast?” 

She’s surprised. “Uh - yeah. Of course. You didn’t?” 

“Mine’s on its way. Tell you what - let me wrap that up, then we can go check out the scene again.” 

She laughs. “Vic - we can’t just leave. I can’t. I have a ton of-” 

He waves it aside. “Fuck it, you need a break to clear your head, right? So do I. And I really think…” He leans in toward the screen. The image of the false-bottom drawer with the bloodstain draws him the more he stares. Brings up the brightness on his screen to see better. 

“I really think there’s something else there.” 

“Well, if you say so… here, this also got me some intel - finally.” She moves to another image - a photograph scan. 

“We found this framed on his wall.” Maoro remembers asking Maxine to photograph it specifically. She’d missed it. It’s a picture of six teenagers - four boys and two girls. They’re posing with unabashed contempt for the establishment - whatever that may be. Looks to be taken against a body of water. The sun is bright on their scowling faces - clearly from better days. 

“I finally got IDs for everyone here. Took a while to track them down…”

“What?” Maoro’s jaw drops in awe. “That’s pretty goddamn substantial! Why’d you say there’s nothing new for Ramsey?”

“Because there isn’t!” She laughs. “I mean - this isn’t enough for a cohesive update, I was gonna - you know, build their profiles, pull up any histories and… then, let you guys know. All I have are names right now.”

“Names and faces are more than enough.” His frustration doesn’t outweigh curiosity. Leans in for a closer look. “That’s… hang on.” 

One of them. One of the boys. He’s seen the kid before. 

“I’ve seen that kid before.” 

“Huh? Where?” 

“I…” 

She follows his finger. “That’s… let me… check…” Opens a text log in a smaller window next to the photo. “Yeah - that’s Aaron Vonn. He’s got a juvie record too. Actually one of the easier profiles. He lives here. Where’d you see him?” 

He can’t remember. Try as he might, it’s a brick wall. Did he see the kid on the street? In some offhand files for some old investigation? 

“Is he related to McGrier?” 

“I… don’t think so. The old man’s family tree doesn’t go far. I never saw a Vonn come up.” 

“Where…” He’s straining to remember. The face is unmistakably familiar. A fleeting image. Marred by something far greater… 

“Send me what you have on him, would you? I’ll let you know if I remember.” 

“Please do.” She gets up. “I won’t hog your seat. See you after breakfast, I guess?” 

“Yeah…” He’s still fixed on the image. “Yes. I’ll - let you know.” 

“Peace out, Vic. I’ll put the files on access for you.” 

“Thanks, Firoza.” 

As she leaves, his phone beeps.

_It’s time to meet Alex at the door._

Breakfast is here. For all that was going on, he has to remind himself to enjoy the little things. To take care of himself. Not to neglect, as he’d done last night. Everyone has to stay stable. Especially these days, when the rumbling sky never stops, and the ground below never stands still.

*

“Red wine. Yellow sand. White plate. Blue dress.” 

“BOW BEFORE THE FLOOD GODDESS! WE REPENT ONLY IN DEATH!” 

“Yo, shut the fuck up, bro.” 

Maxine walks with arms clasped tight around her chest, ignoring chatter and screams and honking cars and music blasting from corner shops. Jacket zipped up and her bag slung over her shoulder, she keeps a stiff and steady gait, walking up the street and away from the precinct. 

_“There’s also something else. Coroner’s report just came through.”_

She’s heard him, even if he thought she couldn’t. She suspects it’s for the unidentified body. It’s strange for reports to be this many days late - then again, no one’s talking about who the man is, or where he came from. Maybe that missing data is slowing down the process. In any case… she doesn’t want to think about it too long. Her heart hasn’t yet stopped racing. 

“Red… wine… yellow sand…”

Don’t think about what they said. Don’t even go there. It’s not real. It doesn’t exist. 

She just keeps walking. Where, she doesn’t know. Her speed is just short of a jog. She’s terrified of passing out again - nearly on the edge of it. No, no, it’s fine - she can handle herself. She can handle this. Just breathe. Just breathe, and walk. 

_“…_ _why does the sea rush to shore? Don’t they know it’s the end of the world, ‘cause you don’t...”_

A vinyl record store plays a slow, old tune that Maxine recognizes. She zooms past it, but stops gingerly, testing herself. Can she stand still? Can she look up? Yes. It’s still there. But it’s more manageable. She turns around and retreats her steps to hear it again. 

_“...why do the birds go on singing?_

_Why do the stars glow above?_

_Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world…_

_It ended when I lost your love…”_

The store is on an intersection. There’s a traffic light post across from it. Arms still crossed, she leans on it. Makes sure she doesn’t block anyone. Just focus on your breathing, Max. Just listen, and breathe. 

_“... I can’t understand, no I can’t understand,_

_How life goes on the way it does…”_

“...white plate…” 

The ballad is slow, and holds a grandeur to it she can never underestimate. She’s loved this song for a long time. The swelling of the singer’s voice as she dives into the chorus line feels like waves crashing onto naked feet, pulling back sand from under cautious toes. The tune makes her nostalgic. The words are heavier still. 

_“Why does my heart go on beating?_

_Why do these eyes of mine cry?”_

For a moment, the tumbling chaos of the city around her is quieter, and she can feel her heart slow down, and the blood cease its thundering in her ears. Her arms relax, and her eyes close, and her lids are red from the dim grey sky bearing down on them all. The first speckle drops of a new rain shower hit her face, and she lets them. Breathes in the air, accepting it for what it is. 

… blue dress.” 

_“...Goodbye to my Santa Monica dream…”_

“Wha-!?” Eyes jerk open. She grabs the post with one hand, swerving to face the vinyl store. A moment’s peace consumed by something inexplicable - but she heard it. She knows she did. 

But when her ears return to the store, the same song plays as before. 

_“...don’t they know, it’s the end of the world…_

_It ended when you said, goodbye.”_

The song is over. Another one begins. It’s got the same energy, but she doesn’t know this one. In any case… 

No, did she hear that right? A different song... completely… a curiously painful… no. Just her mind playing tricks. Maybe it floated over from somewhere else. _Fuck, you need to get your meds filled, Max._

People are staring. She’s been gawking at this storefront for a good minute. An old woman draped in shawls steps out the open door to peek at her. 

“You wanna come in, miss?” she calls cheerily. 

“N-” Her throat is dry as a twig. “Hrrm - no, no thank you. Maybe later!” 

She flips around to see a walk sign glaring from across the intersection. Perfect timing. Maxine slips into the crowd as they cross the street. 

She’d have to be careful with these incidents. She can feel the vast gaps between layers of her mind grow shorter. Hands reaching out to touch, when they’d been pulled away into darkness years ago. Do something constructive. 

Call Warren. 

Now she’s leaning against a brick wall on the other side of the street, watching people go by. "MOTTERS" is spray-painted across it in red and white and black, but the paint is ancient, and dry, and moss has tainted its hues. But Warren isn’t answering. She tries three times. 

_“You’ve reached Warren Graham. Please leave a message.”_ It doesn’t even sound like him when he talks like that - but everyone grows up at some point. Maxine figures she doesn’t sound the same to someone who might’ve known her in her childhood. Someone who knew her well… 

“STOP!” She yells at the pavement. A group of passing men actually do stop to stare. 

“Y-yeah? Fuck you want?” 

“No - nothing. Sorry.” Her face flushes. 

“Crazy bitch…” They keep walking, leering at her from over shoulders. 

This is hopeless. Just go to Warren’s place. Maybe… he’s asleep. Or his phone is dead. There couldn’t be any worse reason than that. 

_Or, you know, he could be upset that you ghosted on him, Max._

“Yeah, that too…” She types out a text. 

_Hey so sorry I got pulled in by detectives. Questioning. Couldn’t get out of it. I’m free now. Plz don’t be mad? Call me_

Does actually send it this time. Waits for an answer as she watches the lights change. Red, to green, to yellow… walk… stop… walk… stop…

Five minutes… 

Ten minutes.

Fifteen. 

Her feet are starting to ache. It’s unreasonable to be upset for this long. She’s trying to make up for it, isn’t she? Give her a chance.

Try as she might, she’s never fresh out of guilt. She decides to call an Uber to his place. She’d explain in person. 

The ride is short. Her driver gets five stars. She doesn’t need to call him from the lobby to enter the building - she has the keys to his place. Even the security guard recognizes her. Normally, he’d ask her why she’s here - but he knows her well. She’s lived here for a good few years. They smile at each other. 

Maxine approaches his door. No hesitation now - just knock. It’s not even that big of a deal. Why is he so upset? Still no answer from the man. 

And she knocks. No answer. 

“Warren!” Don’t be too loud, you’re in a hallway. Fine - just go in. She fiddles with her keys and unlocks the apartment. She gave him every chance to defend his privacy, but if he’s being a child about it-

It’s unlocked. The key turns seamlessly. That’s odd. She pushes the door open and steps inside. 

“Warren?” 

This apartment holds memories. She takes her shoes off and walks past the kitchen on her right, into a warm, cozy living room. She’d helped decorate this. 

Warren’s Back to the Future metal prints are right where she’d left them. There’s a table full of small potted plants she hasn’t seen before. They look very healthy. He must’ve taken up that hobby after she moved out. There’s an aquarium - a big one. She walks up to it. Not too many fish, but they’re exotic. She recognizes the Japanese fighter. The other ones, not so much. The bed is made meticulously. Smooth, blue pebbles glow against the overhead lamp. Real plants on rocks arranged, built to grow in and around them. A small porcelain house for them to swim in and out of. He’d spent time on this. She’s happy for him. But where is he?

“Warren!” 

The flatscreen is asleep, and there’s a bottle of white rum on his coffee table. She doesn’t like that. It took him a lot to quit. Why is he drinking again? This is bullshit. No, this wouldn’t do. Just because they’re not married doesn’t mean she can’t help him - especially when he's acting like an idiot again. He doesn’t get to use life as an excuse to ruin himself. 

Maxine takes the bottle to the kitchen and empties it into the sink. Tosses it in the recycling bin where it belongs. 

“Warren? You here?” 

No answer, still. She checks his bedroom. Messy, cluttered, chaotic. This used to be his study. He’d sleep upstairs with her. On the bed, the small faded journal labeled _2015._ She’s in half a mind to pick it up, but the sight of it is giving her the familiar prickly feeling in her chest, the pressure in her skull she’d felt during questioning. No. 

Shuts the bedroom door. 

She checks upstairs. In their old room - the bathrooms - nothing. 

“Warren? _Warren?”_

Maybe he’s… just out for-? For what? 

Only when she comes downstairs and hears a distinct, telltale beep does the situation begin to sink in.

Warren’s phone. His phone is on the couch. Slowly, she picks it up and clicks it awake. A new text message from… _Kate._

“Kate… Marsh?” 

The phone nearly drops; she sits down. It’s happening again. Kate… she knows a Kate. She remembers Kate. Someone she… knows, cares about. It’s a distant memory. A dwindling beacon through a blanket of fog, but she can see it. It grows brighter. It’s warm. The image of Kate grows clearer. A friend. An old friend. They hadn’t spoken in years. Why? 

But why is it happening again, then? Why does she feel dizzy? 

Maxine swallows it to face the bigger truth of it: Warren isn’t here. But his phone is. She reads Kate’s message. 

_Hey Warren, I got off early so is it okay if I come over now? I’m already on my way btw, but asking is polite :3 Can’t wait to see you both! Don’t tell Max <3 _

Warren invited Kate. He’d planned so much. But he left his phone here. And he's gone. She checked every corner of the place. He wouldn’t go out without his phone. He wouldn’t buy alcohol. Something is amiss. 

The feeling of a city lost inside itself, that she’d felt back at the hospital, grows stronger. Here, it feels like an epicenter of instability. His apartment feels wrong. Her former home is unrecognizable. What happened here? 

She stares at Kate’s message. If something had gone wrong - if Warren was in trouble - she’d need help. Let’s not panic. Let’s take this one step at a time. 

She enters his password and unlocks the phone. Opens the message log with Kate. Why is this so hard? She knows Kate… it’s been a while. But this is a friend. Just talk to her. Warren might be in trouble. Someone else has to know. Kate’s on her way here. Her finger taps the call button and she brings it to her ear, the sound of ringing drowning out the gentle hum of the aquarium, amidst deadly silence. 


	5. Lighthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron seeks shelter from the rain. Maoro goes hunting and finds more than what he sought. Max has a nosebleed after thirteen years.

_“... -day is gonna be better, forecast looks great for an outdoor concert – for any fans out there who missed out on tickets, there will be extra room available by Wednesday, our sources confirmed! Firewalk’s charity concert in Leavenworth for the Sky Kenya Foundation is still set for...”_

The radio’s chatter is a pleasant crackle seeping through the open door of an ancient RV. Parked on the side of a narrow road, the clunky beast leans on uneven terrain, the raised smooth asphalt and lowered barren dirt, creeping into grass. There’s a sad excuse of a fence reaching as far as the eye can see on either side. Coiled wire holds onto wooden posts every few feet. Behind them, flat, open grassland – shrouded in low-hanging fog. The mist is heavy, and dense, and quiet. It’s early morning. Every now and then, a car zooms by. It’s peaceful here.

One of the wooden posts is slightly off. It’s been pushed out of the wet ground by the unforgiving weight of a neglectful traveler. He leans on it unabashedly. He’s tall, and aged, and haggard. His jacket sleeves are rolled up and collar is down, showing derelict tattoos he’d never bothered to freshen, an old watch clearly not built to last. Fresh cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, pressed to his ear. Brings the stick in for another smoky gulp as he hears it ringing on the other end.

“Hello, Frank.” A woman’s voice. “Where are you?”

“Just... uh, still a ways off. Be a couple hours before I’m in town.” Frank inhales between lines, letting it out through his nose with a sigh. “Where do I meet you?”

“Just come to my house.”

“Really? With all the kids around?”

He hears her smile as she speaks. “It’ll be fine. So long as you’re not bringing any uninvited guests.”

“Uh, no.” Frank loses taste for the cigarette and crushes it into the road. It was cheap anyway. “Just me. I’ll let you know when I get in.”

“Thank you for doing this.”

“Hey, it’s no problem. And, uh – I wanted to ask you...” He pushes off the post and strolls into the open road, keeping close to his RV, hand in jacket pocket. “About Jane. You think it’s like... before?”

“Before?”

“You know...”

“Oh.” She clues in. “Well, I... they’re both in prison. Will be for a while. But Sean Prescott still lives just outside of town. I don’t wanna point fingers yet, Frank... but I’m not ruling it out.”

“Me neither.” Frank comes to lean on the hood of the vehicle now, watching the approach of faraway headlights glaring through the haze. “Glad you called when you did. Did Madsen say anything?”

“David wants me to stay out of it.” Her voice tightens. “Like hell I will... these are my kids.”

“But he’s not gonna help? At all?”

“He said he’ll... look into it. Himself. I don’t know what that means, and he wouldn’t explain.”

Frank sighs. “I... guess we take his word for it.”

“He’s not a bullshitter, I know that much.”

“And still no word from police?”

“They’re turning up dry. Findley does good work here, I know her, she’s _not_ dirty. But they just... can’t do much around here these days.”

“Which is why we need Madsen to step up. I don’t like him stringing you on.”

She sighs. “He delivers what he promises. Don’t worry about that.”

“Alright... Hey, listen... if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stick around for a while. I’ll keep to myself, just – I wanna help. Any way I can. More hands are better. Get ahead of this thing, you know? Don’t want it to be like last time. Whole thing was... too damn late. We waited too long. Not happening with Jane.”

She takes a second. “Yes. Of course. Thank you, Frank. I’ll let you know when David calls back. It’s hard to get a hold of him.”

“Thanks, Joyce. See you soon.”

Frank hangs up just as a chain of sedans fly by. Suppose it’s time to head on. But he can’t get enough of this place. This, on the side of the road, no buildings, no lights. Just a single signboard, far away enough to be illegible. In both directions, it’s a straight path to nothing, and everything. He could stay here forever, smelling the grass, listening to the air and the rumbling of cars. As he feels around for the sounds of this world, he hears a train. Distant. Nearly impossible to hear – unless you really try. And then it blares its horn, and he knows for sure. There’s a train passing somewhere. He breathes in a lungful of the crisp, cool morning air, glad to have dropped that cigarette when he did. He’s been smoking through inertia for years. Truth is, it just doesn’t feel right anymore. He can’t understand that. So many stories of nicotine addiction... how can you just _stop_ wanting it? What changes? He feels undeserving of such a privilege. And so he keeps his lighter on him. 

He knows he can’t stay. For all he’s been, and all he will be, the next few days are essential. He can’t dawdle.

The RV door slams shut and a seatbelt clicks into place. It’s even quieter in here. It’s been renovated so many times, it’s unrecognizable. He simply can’t let this horse go. Why would he?

He ignores the dilapidated passenger seat in his peripheral. Now’s no time for melancholy. Turns the old key and the beast whirs to life, dashboard lighting up and bobbleheads knocked into madness. Changes the radio to something more his taste.

_“... saddled up and away I did go, riding alone in the dark..._

_Maybe tomorrow a bullet may find me, tonight nothing’s worse than this pain in my heart...”_

The fence post is on edge, ripped from its muddy roots; the cigarette, flat against the earth, still smokes; the RV thunders down the road into the haze, picking up speed as it bounces past the only sign in view.

ARCADIA BAY 150 MILES

*

“544!” Marvin calls an order out. An elderly woman with spangly purple butterfly glasses walks up to take the tray, without a word.

“Sorry ma’am, the ice cream machine is-” But she’s already left. He assumes she’s a bit daft.

Aaron’s departure has left him in quiet fury. He’s been steadily taking it out on his clipboard, knowing he’ll have to stay late to cover the paperwork, on top of covering for his ex-employee. This all doesn’t seem worth it. Should he quit too? Leave the store to cosmic chance. That’d be nice...

“Excuse me.” He’s pulled out of his trance. A tall man, sopping wet, stands before him. Broad shoulders and hair plastered to his face.

“Yes sir, what can I get for you?”

“I, actually... I was here, a bit over an hour ago,” the man explains. “I left my wallet here by accident. Did you happen to find-?”

“Oh – yes!” Marvin’s happy something worked out today. “Yes, we have it – one second, I’ll be right back.”

Ray can’t believe his luck. He’d decided to avoid calling Remy. No need to let a fellow officer know how careless their lieutenant had been today. To him, risking the loss of his wallet was a worthy gamble. In any case... no losers here.

“Is this yours?” Marvin returns with a familiar friend.

“Definitely is. Did you find it?”

“No, um – one of our em-employees found it.”

Ray’s looking through the contents. “I’d like to thank them, are they here?”

“Uh – no, no, they – they left. Just a while ago, you just missed him.”

“Hmm...” Ray’s spotted the difference. His access card to the St. Maddison morgue is gone. Why would a McDonald’s employee steal that? Kids wanting to break in and see corpses? How would he even know it’s for a morgue? This didn’t add up.

“What’s this employee’s name, if I may?”

Marvin’s smile vanishes. There’s a line of customers behind Ray already. Ray’s gaze doesn’t falter. He knows, that Marvin knows, that he’s a police officer. There’s no chance the man didn’t see his ID.

“I’m – I don’t think I can – is he in – wh-why do you ask?”

“Something’s missing from my wallet, I’d like to have a talk with him.”

“Oh - oh my god, did he take your money!?”

“No.”

“...Ssssomething else?” Marvin keeps glancing at the line behind Ray, tossing in hellos and a “be right with you” to give the man a hint. Ray politely declines.

“You sure you didn’t remove anything from this wallet?”

“Wha – me? No! No, no, I-“

“And where is your employee now?” A few drops of water bounce off Ray’s hair and into his eyes, forcing him to blink and shatter his steely gaze routine. Marvin sees no choice.

“He quit.”

“He quit?”

He nods, eyebrows vanishing into his hairline. Arms up in a shrug, indifference veiling some seething rage. “He quit... about an hour ago. He just – had a little tantrum, said some little things, and walked out.”

“Hey, keep the line moving?” A woman calls. Ray ignores her.

“What’s his name?”

Marvin is reluctant, but feels very little compassion after the boy’s embarrassing antics. “Aaron.”

“Aaron? Alright, and you are – Marvin.” Spots his nametag. “Marvin, would you mind giving Aaron a call and asking him to come down here? I’d just like to have a word.”

Marvin wants absolutely nothing to do with Aaron.

“I, uh...” The line is getting restless. Decides to call for backup. “Camille! To the front, please?”

A young woman zooms into view at breakneck pace. Ray’s drenched appearance catches her off guard.

“Ye-yeah?”

“Take their orders, I’ll be back.” Marvin motions to Ray to follow him to a nearby table. Camille handles the line, unwavering and mechanical, as they hiss their frustrations at her. Ray and Marvin take a seat at an unoccupied booth.

“Um... sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Marvin smiles. Let’s be cooperative. How much shit does Aaron even get into?

“It’s Ray.”

“Right, so – um... is – is Aaron in – some kind of-? Because I don’t want to interfere with, uh, a _legal_ investigation, but I might have to, uh – let my – let my head office know about–”

Ray stops him with a shake of the head and a tight hand wave. “No. Nothing like that here. I’m not here on official capacity. This is private. Something’s missing from my wallet, and you say that Aaron is the person who found it, and then, what – he gave it to you?”

“Yes.” Big, enthusiastic nods.

“See, if that’s true... Look, Marvin.” He leans in. “I’m just asking for a favor. I don’t know why anybody would steal this, and at this point, I’d just like it back. It’s an access card to a mortuary.”

Marvin’s stumped. “Mor-mortuary? Mor-like a morgue? Like, for dead bodies?”

“Yes.”

The abyssal mystery of why anyone would take a morgue access card is a secondary matter – or is it? Ray decides it is, for now. Beyond pranks and morbid fascination, it’s anyone’s guess. He vaguely remembers the image of the employee, before he and Maoro had run off to see Maxine. Short. Skinny. A mess of pale blond hair sticking out from under that stupid cap he’s forced to wear. What else?

_“You got the last round.”_

Audio cue? Visual aid? He glances at the counter, where Camille is now taking orders. That’s where he stood. If push came to shove, he might try to convince Marvin to show him surveillance footage – if the cameras even work here. He’s hoping it won’t come to that.

A ring. The boy had a ring on one of his hands. Ray remembers noting it because it’s peculiar. He looked like a teenager. They don’t usually wear rings... not in his experience, anyway. What kind of ring...?

“I completely understand.” Marvin pokes into his train of thought. “But I – I don’t know if I can call him, he – he just quit the job and I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“You can give me his number, then.”

Marvin seems to like that even less. Ray leans in and takes a deep breath, hands clenched. Today’s been bizarre from the get-go, and he’s had it up to here. The explanation he’d have to give Aaklya for taking off on Maxine would be a short one – his presence there was customary. But it’s still going to be a prickly conversation. More troubling, of course, is why he left at all. Why seeing Caulfield and being in her presence grew more tumultuous for him, a cavernous well of indecipherable emotion he’d been putting off addressing, instead driving up and down the rain-soaked city looking for things he’d already seen. He wants to avoid that for now. Much more pressing issues at hand. Like this access card.

“I just want my property back. If you want, I can get authority to search your staff, order your camera footage – whole nine yards. I’m just trying to make it easy for you.” 

The downpour is horrific. It’s been one of those days, hasn’t it? The rain comes and goes, but this is ridiculous. Still, Aaron thinks, as he pulls into an empty parking spot – it could be worse. He could be cleaning out the fucking soft serve machine, on unpaid overtime, for the umpteenth time. Could be worse, he says, trying to blare out the image of the waving figure in the rain that vanished into thin air, cranking up the volume on his earphones. The car jangles to a halt and he steps out, getting absolutely soaked. It’s unavoidable. Just make sure your phone’s safe and dry. Earphones go in his pocket too.

Aaron’s car is parked between two buildings. The lot is empty, and faces a vast brick wall. He’s not even considering getting out of the rain. There’s writing on the wall. Black, bleeding and nearly washed away, but still resilient. Still there.

FEAR THE FLOOD

“The fuck...?”

He follows his gaze from the wall to the street across it. A man is seated, cross-legged, on the pavement. He’s staring at the wall. Then his eyes meet Aaron’s.

“Ey-ey, Aaron!” He waves through the rain, big fat grin.

“Hey, Tevo.” Aaron’s only speaking loud to beat the sound of the rain. “The fuck are you doing?”

“You like my work!?” Tevo points to the wall, his hands as black as the message. “Did it just this mornin’!”

Aaron shakes his head and walks around to one of the buildings flanking the lot. “You’ll catch a cold,” he mutters, thought not loud enough for anyone to hear. Tevo swings back into his meditative state, watching the rain turn his prophecy to sewage.

Aaron avoids the building’s main entrance. Vague windows against orange bricks, a sizeable square against a muddy sky. Who knows what it used for – all but abandoned now, unless you count the occasional student film crew. Those artsy people can’t get enough of wrecked-to-shit buildings nobody wants, and Aaron can’t begin to imagine why. They’re cool places to film, so they say. Wouldn’t that depend on the movie? Who writes a movie _around_ a set?

He makes his way instead to what looks at first like a hole in the ground. A bit closer, and it’s a terribly narrow flight of stairs. No banister. Watch your step – it’s sopping wet.

At the foot of the steps, there’s a rusty metal door. Looks like it’s been locked for years. Aaron fumbles in his pockets for his jangle of keys, and uses an old grey one to unlock the door. Pushes it open and steps through. Locks behind him.

Narrow, cramped hallway. Another door at the end. Loud music thumping through the walls, muffled and distant. Twisted neon signs on one side of the hall blaring onto a chaotic mess of graffiti on the other – signatures, dragons, tongues and crucifixes. It’s all here. The floor is sticky and unpaved. Aaron stomps across the tiny passage and hammers on the second door – even heavier, and less rusted. A car license plate hangs above the door, letters punched in from behind.

RAVENHOUSE

A peephole slides open.

“State your purpose,” says an immeasurably gruff pair of eyes.

“Not in the fucking mood, Braggs. Let me in.”

“Bitch won’t even play...” The door swings open by the hands of a viciously wide young man, green braids coming down to his shoulders. “You’re lucky Maurice loves you, you little shit.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Aaron stalks past him with a little grin as the man heaves a big fat laugh.

It’s a cramped place, packed with people and lights and music is coming from many corners, and they’re not all the same. Ceiling lights are dim. More prominent is the incessant neon tubing, the lava lamps and the floor-lined LED strips, washing the whole place in a hazy, foggy blue. The walls are haphazard and coil in every direction like snakes – an illusion of a much bigger place, but really, it’s not. Many hidden doors, some ajar. Steady beats and loud voices leak through them, making it all an indecipherable cacophony. A stairwell in the corner leads to deeper bowels still – Aaron’s never been down there. He’s not eager to find out. There’s a circular bar in the center of the joint, and the walls on the left open up to a tiny auditorium, where the light’s brightest. A group of kids huddled around on bean bags to his right, smoking. A band rehearsing on a shoddy little stage in auditorium. The dusty center bar with ancient glassing hanging upside down, and a bartender engrossed in her phone, tipping her chair on its legs with both spangled heels on the counter.

“Hey, it’s A-A-Ron...”

“Come smoke up, Aaron!”

“Hey, get me free tickets! Motterboy!”

Aaron greets some of the people here as he walks past them. He’s looking for someone in particular, and stopping to chat up these folks is a waste of time. They’re getting baked with or without him.

A group of older boys are talking, against a wall, beers in position. One of them sights Aaron and sets his drink down on the grimy floor. Aaron makes a beeline for him.

“Len!”

“And where the hell have you been?” The tall strider grabs Aaron by the hair.

“Looking for yo-?” Aaron can’t finish. Their lips lock with immaculate ferocity, and the boys jeer beside them.

“Ey, get a room ya fuckin’ homos...”

Aaron pulls away and grabs whoever said that by the collar, nearly a foot above him in height. “ _Shut the fuck up,_ don’t _fucking_ call me that, Spin!”

“S’a joke, bitch. Relax.”

“Not a good one,” Len. Spin’s sarcastic “oh, fucking sorry,” doesn’t have an audience; Aaron’s already been dragged away toward the stage.

“Thought you had work today.”

“Yeah, I quit just now.” Aaron glances at the stage. A girl is in animated chatter with her drummer, mic in hand, while a guitarist browses his phone, squatting on an amp. He leaps toward them in strides, leaving Len to follow after him with hands in pockets.

“How’s it coming?” Aaron climbs on stage with awkward legs. They’re delighted.

“Bro! Thought you were at work?”

“You’re soaked man, stay away from my pedals!”

The girl sets the mic back in its holder. “Just picking up after these slow motherfuckers. Thought we were rehearsing without you today.”

Aaron clicks his tongue. “Nah. Show’s tonight. Can’t fuck it up. What’d I miss?”

“Vlad still hasn’t memorized the second bridge.”

Aaron gapes at the drummer. “Second bridge on Bloodcrawl? Dude, you’ve had four fucking weeks!”

Vlad shakes his head with a slow wisdom, drumsticks raised. “She’s, like, talking out of so many asses, bro. I have it down.”

“No you don’t, you were fucking up all day!”

“Uh, it’s called being human, Georgie?”

“Kay – Vlad – the concert’s tonight?” Aaron snaps, indignant hand raised and waving. “Right? We’re charging money? Like, it’s our first real show! So pull it together.”

Vlad sniggers and shrugs, making Aaron whip around at Len for support. “We’re fucked.” Arms up in despair.

“No you’re not,” Len states from the floor. “I heard him rehearse, he sounded fine.”

“Okay, _you’re_ not invited anymore.” Georgie giggles at Len. “Aaron, baby, you wanna dry off before we start? You’ll get sick.”

“I – yeah. Shit, my song...” Fumbles in his pockets and pulls out a folded piece of paper. It’s still dry. “Wanted to show you this, uh... let me know what – what you guys think.” Hands it to Georgie.

“New poem by the Poe?” She unfolds it for a quick glance, and her brows cross with every passing line.

“Aaron... this is amazing. This – when did you – is it composed?”

“Not yet.”

“Yo, lemme see!” The guitarist hops off his amp to come take a look.

“Wait your turn, fucko.” Georgie’s still reading.

“Alright, I gotta talk to Maurice about something and dry off.” Aaron hops off stage and sticks his arm around Len’s. “Be back later.”

“Hurry up,” Georgie calls, still engrossed in the poem.

“Let’s just sit, okay?” Aaron whispers to Len, desperate and quiet. And they make their way to the back of the tiny auditorium.

They come and sit down against a small corner where the speakers are. A pile of crates makes for a good leaning spot. The stage lights are on the band, bright washes of gold; the rest of the joint, bathed in spills of neon and electric white and pitch black, grant many discreet spots that shy away from the light. The boy puts his arm around Aaron as they slide down. A few more chairs wouldn’t hurt this place. Len brushes some wet hair out of Aaron’s eyes to see them seething.

“You’re soaked. It’s shit out there, eh?”

“Don’t even fucking start.” Aaron’s boiling. “It’s shit everywhere.”

Len tries to change the subject.

“You didn’t tell me about your new song.”

“It’s not a song, even – just words right now...”

“I like reading your stuff.”

“Yeah, well, it’s about you.” Aaron flashes an evil grin, resting his head on his knuckles. “You can’t read it. You’ll fuck up the surprise.”

Len smiles, eyes crinkling. “Bullshit.”

“Mhm, just gonna have to wait till I sing it for you.”

“You didn’t write me a song. That’s so corny, Aaron.” He chuckles. Aaron flushes like a farm-fresh red delicious.

“Yeah, well, I bullshitted, it’s _not_ even about you, so get your head out of your ass.”

Which makes Len laugh even more, and Aaron looks away to the stage pointedly. The gang is huddled around his poem. Is it really that good? No, it can’t be. It’s probably trash...

“So why’d you quit?” Len sits up. Curious, and concerned. 

“Because some _motherfucker_ got in my face and called me a faggot! For no reason! And fucking Marv – _shit stain_ – tried to make me apologize when I called him out!”

“Oh, you didn’t though, right?” Looks away, visibly angered.

“What, you think I’m I stupid, Len? Why would I fucking apologize to some pig-faced – hey, wanna see the asshole?” He grins and his voice dips.

“What?”

“I got his pic.”

Len’s brows cross. “Aaron.”

“Just look at him, fucking fat piece of shit.” Aaron pulls out his phone and unlocks it.

“Aaron!”

 _“What?”_ He’s pissed again. Len lowers his voice too.

“Is that... the favor you called in with Maurice? Because you know I’ll have an issue with you doing that stuff.”

“So? You’re not my fucking dad.”

“Say that again?”

Aaron goes red again. “Whatever – it’s not up to you. Fuck. I just wanna have some fun, what’s the problem? I’m not gonna _really_ fuck him over. Maybe.” And he hides another grin to keep up being angry. 

“It’s not safe. It’s illegal shit.” Len stays where he’s been with the volume, while Aaron’s voice jumps all over the place.

“Oh, you’re the fucking Ravenhouse hall monitor now? I’ll be fine, get over yourself.”

“You’re so full of shit, Aaron.” Len looks away to the stage. “Hey! George!”

Georgie spins around and squints at the back through the stage lights. “What!?”

“We gonna hear you sing any time soon, or what?” Len’s massive grin fits his heavy jaw.

“Fucking pay for it, Leonard!” She laughs and twirls back to Vlad, who starts twiddling with his sticks now. Eager to play, now that there’s an eager audience.

Aaron’s chin quivers and he pulls his knees in. Still soaked. Len takes his arm off.

“I’m gonna get you some brandy. Stay put.”

“Okay.” Nothing could sound better, although he did try to mask the gratitude in his voice. He’s been freezing since he came down here. Len’s departure leaves him alone in the dark and he leaps for his phone. A new message from... Camille.

_Hey you ok?_

Multiple messages from Camille.

_There’s a cop here asking about you_

_Let me know if you’re ok_

_Tf did you take? Lol_

Doesn’t answer. The idea of his theft falling so fast on the radar is not reassuring. He wishes Len would hurry up.

What did he take, she asks. Aaron reaches into a damp pocket to extract his wallet, where the crisp little card is still tucked. The St. Maddison morgue held more than what Ray had gone to witness earlier today. This could lead to something worthwhile. Could give him a reason to get the hell out of Seattle and find some real answers. It’s been too long since he’s seen them all. The darker clouds over these high-rises have given way to unsettled ground. He’s hoping it’ll be better down the coast, but something tells him these showers are mere sirens for a greater beast. A desperate hope might be to make it through all this before that day comes, and find some kind of absolution. The key to that – this card, a literal key – walked into his hands today. He’s not going to let it go. And in any case – he does plan to return it.

He instinctively scrolls past his older texts, looking for nothing at all. Stops when he reaches a name that still gives him trouble sleeping.

_Jane_

Last message from Jane was three months ago. No... more than that. God, it feels a lifetime away. Reading it has gotten easier over time, though. Not easy – easier.

_Hey Aaron. Hope you’re doing well in Seattle. Give Grandpa J my love. Just saying I miss you. I wish we didn’t leave things that way. Blackwell sucks without you. At least Joyce understands when I lose my shit at her. Guess I’m lucky. She misses you too. Sorry I’m rambling. I want us to talk again. No pressure just let’s talk again? Please? I miss you. Tell me about life there. Or get pissed at me. It’s all good. Hope you come back to visit soon. Before I fuck off to college and never see you again. Jk._

His answer never reached her, because he never typed it. Months, he sat on it. Why couldn’t he just text her back? A simple hello? Anything at all.

And then the news in September – both bits of news, really. It’s been a rough few weeks. He doesn’t know just how important Len, and this band, has been. He’s not sure if he should tell them. He hasn’t told anyone about Jane, and that strikes him, just a little bit, as a problem. He’d have to talk about it eventually. Just not today. Definitely not today.

“Wrap up.” Len’s here with a towel. Aaron’s glad to stick the phone away, and dries his hair.

“Thanks, babe. We have towels here?”

“Looks like it.” Hands him some much-needed amber liquid, layers of old fingerprints catching the stage lights through warped glass. Aaron downs it in one go. Cold, but burning; the nectar coats his throat and blares hot shivers through his lungs, kicking into his brain. There’s honey in it too.

“We have _honey_ here?” Perplexed.

“Maurice does.”

It suddenly hits Aaron that Len had to run around looking for honey when he didn’t have to. Probably for the towel too. He’s not sure what to say to reciprocate that. So he stays quiet.

“Feel better?” Len crosses his long legs and leans into the crates next to Aaron, hands behind his head, watching the band tune themselves.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“So what’s the plan now?”

“Huh?”

“Got a job in mind?” Len’s looking at him with sideways eyes, head fixed on the stage.

“Uh – no. No, I’m gonna... chill out for now.”

“ _Are_ you?”

Aaron glares. “What?”

“I got a text from Camille, did you steal something from a cop?” Len’s face is impassive, head still cradled as he cracks his spine.

“Ugh – what the fuck! She can’t –”

“She’s worried about you. So am I. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Stop treating me like I’m a stupid kid, Len!” His voice shoots up and the band on stage send him awkward glances. Len brings his hands down.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Yeah!”

“So you’re stealing from cops because you’re an adult?”

“Get off my ass. I didn’t steal, I borrowed.”

“I’m trying to talk to you–”

“Aaron!”

A rumbling voice calls from the direction of the bar. A wide, heavy man with a shaved head, stars carved into his hair. Rolled-up sleeves on a dress shirt reveal tattoos that go deeper than the eyes can see. He walks through thin strips of blue and red neon from the signs and tubes along the floor, blinking him into bouts of shadow as he approaches.

“Hey, Maurice.”

Maurice shakes hands with Len before waving at the band on stage.

“Good luck tonight!” He beams at them. “I got special crowds comin’ in!”

“Friends and family?” Len grins.

“Just friends.” The man sits down on the floor next to them, his big legs not really accommodating. Good thing there are crates to lean on. “Although, who knows if they’ll make it... if it keeps rainin’ like this.”

“Sure they wouldn’t miss a Motters concert for the world.” Aaron’s a bit sarcastic, hoping he comes off as funny.

“Your music is _profound.”_ the man holds up an invisible piece of paper and shakes it to make his point.

“Yeah, I even wrote a new song about Len.” Aaron glances at him to see if the bait lured Len into the conversation; it did not. Len’s watching the stage, a look of stifled anger on him. Aaron feels a bubble of guilt well up.

“I’m sure you did. So – Aaron. You had some favors to ask?”

Len gets up and leaves toward the stage, without a look back. Aaron feels another bite in his stomach.

“Uh – yeah. I... need this... copied.” He pulls out his wallet and hands Maurice the card. A few seconds of suspicious glances.

“What’s this for?”

“St. Maddison’s hospital.” Aaron’s careful not to break eye contact, though he’s wishing for a second towel now.

“And why, pray tell–”

“It’s – uh – personal.” Yikes. Maybe not the best approach. Maurice gives him a look of disappointment, eyebrow raised.

“Personal? Aaron, I don’t care what you get up to. But I can’t help you if you gonna treat me like a fool. Ya hear?”

“N-no! No. Shit, sorry, I – it’s just – complicated.”

“I got time.” Maurice leans back on the crates and twirls the card between fingers.

“Uh...” No point fumbling. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. Just spill.

“My... uh... grandfather died. Last month. He – he was... killed.”

A pause. It’s harder to talk about it than he thought it would be. He hasn’t really talked about it at all. Not like this. His voice is low.

“And I don’t know why. The cops, they – motherfuckers – they don’t wanna tell me anything. They cleaned him up and buried him and it’s like they don’t even care. He was killed, Maurice. And I don’t know what they’re even doing to – fuck it. This card...”

And he leans in, getting quieter still.

“This is an access card... to the morgue where they did his autopsy. I know ‘cause I saw them roll him in there. I asked around inside. I saw someone use it, I heard the fucking receptionist say it. It’s called Level One Access.”

“And you wanna get into the morgue?” Maurice summarizes. “You want me to copy this card?”

“Yeah. I wanna find copies of his autopsy report down there. Fuckers won’t tell me shit. I wanna know what happened to him. Maybe it can help me find who did this.”

“Aaron...” Maurice shakes his head. “You really think they’re gonna leave autopsy reports... lying around?”

“I...” That’s an excellent point. “I’ll... look around. Filing cabinets. Pick some locks. Whatever. I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure it out.” 

“Yeah.” Aaron’s losing patience. Doesn’t take much. “I can handle myself, Maurice, I just need some help getting in.”

Maurice sits up straight and hands him back the card.

“You do this – you go in there with no plan or reason – that’s a one-way ticket to the bars. You’re not a juvie no more. And record like yours – judge ain’t gonna look twice, you hearin’ me?”

“...Maurice–”

“I’m not gonna help you shit your life away, kid. Not with a stupid-ass plan like that.”

Aaron’s fury is making it hard to breathe. He really thought this would be a hit. An answer that came to him on the wind, right into his hands. Why couldn’t anything work out? He wants to get up and leave – first instinct. But he remembers the concert. Would he even be able to sing at this rate? Would he be able to apologize to Len, since it’s been simmering at the back of his mind?

“But... if it’s police info you want...” Maurice clasps his hands together and lowers his head, eyes blaring into Aaron’s.

“I could do something for you.”

“...Something? Like what? Do what?”

Maurice doesn’t care for his tone, but makes a quick exception given that it’s Aaron, and he’s upset – as he usually is. “Not making promises. But I know an ex-SPD. Could cash in a favor. Put some feelers out on your grandpa’s case. See what we find.”

These words crash through him like warm water. He’s still too angry to be happy about it. “No promises” is what he really takes from it.

“Okay...” Voice quivering. “Uh – so. Okay.”

“I’m sorry about your grandpa, kid. Ain’t easy letting go. I know. But he’s with the Big Man now. We all get taken care of.”

Aaron nods, breaking gaze. He’s not in the mood, nor prepared, for a heart-to-heart.

“What... was his name?”

He blinks, waits a second before he pushes it out. “J-Jameson. McGrier.”

“McGrier? Inn’ your last name Vonn?”

“Yeah, we – he’s not my... _actual_ grandfather.”

Maurice leans back again, arms crossed. Big sigh. A little pissed. “What?”

“He – we’re not – okay, look.” No more beating around this bush. “We’re not from here, we’re from way down in Oregon. He took me in off the streets. Me and a few other kids. He raised us. Not – like, legally adopted. But he tried. He was family, okay? We all were. Then some shit happened, he moved here a year ago and I came with him ‘cause I...” And Aaron looks down, then to the side. “I didn’t – want him to be... alone.”

Maurice is quiet. He’s never heard Aaron talk this much about himself before – aside from bitching and whining, anyway.

“Lotta fucking good that did. He got fucking murdered anyway, while I was flipping _fucking patties!”_ He whacks the access card on the floor and it goes bouncing across the auditorium. It feels useless now. Just as useless as he feels. He’s breathing heavy. Len’s watching him from the other side of the room.

“Maurice, I – there’s a lot of shit going on I can’t talk about, but if I can just... if I can just find out – who did this – and why – then I can do something right for once.”

Maurice considers it. He knows Aaron well enough not to smell deceit. His concerns remain elsewhere.

“You know anything about what police division’s doin’ his case?”

Aaron shakes his head. “No, I tried to find out, they won’t tell me jack shit. Not like they advertise it.”

Maurice nods slowly, getting to his feet. Aaron looks up in what he knows is blind desperation.

“Text me his name, kid. I’ll see what I find. Let you know. And hey – I said no promises.”

He walks away. Aaron can’t say much but nod to himself, rubbing his knees. Maurice stops.

“Hey – didn’t you want _another_ favor?”

“Oh.” Memories flood in now. The asshole customer whose picture he took. He doesn’t even feel like thinking about it.

“Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, Maurice. I’m sure.”

Again, not a fan of his tone. Maurice lets him get away with it. But one day, they’d need to have a talk about respect. He doesn’t look forward to it.

Aaron’s phone vibrates, pulling him out of a little vortex he’d forged himself. Who the fuck is it?

_Marvin_

“Fuck me...”

Should he pick up? There’s no way this can be a pleasant call. No chance in hell.

“Hello.”

“Aaron, hey, listen – there’s a... a gentleman here who claims you took something from his wallet. He says you’re not in trouble if you bring it back. Now.”

How, in heaven and earth, does a day continue to get worse? He has a concert tonight. He has to rehearse. He doesn’t want to go back out in the rain. He wants to stay here, where it’s warm, where he knows people, where the walls are friendly.

“I can’t come now.”

“Aaron, he’s really insistent. It’s a – it’s an officer of the law. You stole from a cop.”

“I was... I...” His energy’s gone. Why? Ah, yes – a plan washed into dust, because he hadn’t thought it through, and was lucky enough to talk over it with someone smarter. A reminder of his own idiocy. Uselessness. Futility in the face of a merciless road. Good ingredients for a mellow-out.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Aaron, he needs it back now.”

“I can’t come now. Tomorrow morning.” And he hangs up the phone. You know what – turn off the phone. These calls aren’t stopping.

He pulls himself to his feet. Vlad is starting out a drum solo now. The beat gives him a little strength. Might as well find that card he tossed – he has to return it. What a goddamn load of nothing.

He’s scanning the floor as he approaches the stage, trying to avoid Len. Unfortunately, Len gets right in his face.

“Looking for this?” He’s got the card. Aaron pockets it. “Yeah, thanks.”

Len waits for an apology. Aaron says nothing, so he turns to leave again.

“Hey, Len.”

Stop and listen.

“I, uh – I didn’t do it. You were right. Stupid thing to do.”

“Yeah.” Len’s face still hasn’t forgiven, but his tone tries to show otherwise. He approaches Aaron again, cautiously, both hands still pocketed.

“I deleted the photo of the asshole, just... so you know.” That’s not even true. Aaron hopes it’s not obvious. He’d delete it later, what’s the big deal? Len nods again.

“Cool. Yeah, that’s good. You know, you shouldn’t be getting into that shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

The ensuing silence is cracked open with two thick bops from the speakers. Georgie’s testing the mic.

“Hellooo, lovebirds. Don’t mind me, just a mic test...”

The guitarist hooks up his instrument and lets out a jangly pair of chords in a four-measure loop. Aaron knows it. He wrote it. With Vlad’s drums, that’ll be the opening progression of Bloodcrawl. He’s a little proud. More than a little.

“So...” He’s desperate to break this new ice. “You – wanna read the song?”

Len’s surprised. “Thought it was all top-secret n’ shit.”

“Yeah, but... you’re VIP.” He climbs up on stage and swipes the folded page from atop Vlad’s kit. Hops back down while Georgie hisses at him through the mic, despite being a foot away.

“Aaron’s taking his sweet ass time getting in for rehearsal, not like we have a show in five hours...”

Butterflies. He feels them when she says it, and he’s just realized how excited he really is. All this ugliness clouding him – he nearly forgot why he was still here. Hands Len the song. It might as well be called a song, albeit without notes or rhythm – it would never work as a poem. Repeating verses, for one thing.

“Here.”

Len takes his lyrics and walks up to the stage. Leans on it, one foot up against the wood, reading. Aaron’s watching him. The warmer lights set ablaze the wisps of his mess of curly hair, plunging the rest of him in stark blue shadow. It’s a comforting sight.

*

“It’s a comfortable fit.” Firoza drops the false bottom of the drawer and it smacks down with a dusty thud. “Just tall enough for his logbook.”

“Which we know... is useless... correct?” Maoro’s in the washroom, standing up on the toilet seat, flashlight poking around in the air vent.

“We already checked up there.” Firoza walks over to the innumerable little dolls and glass-blown figurines, like a stash of obscure souvenirs, stacked in rows on shelves. “I wouldn’t call it useless. Nothing is.”

Maoro hops down and walks back into McGrier’s living room, pocketing his light. “I meant contextually.” Reaches for the photograph of the teenagers, still perched on the wall.

“So did I.” Firoza’s tapping her foot, checking the floorboards for hollow points.

“We checked the floor too.”

“And we checked the picture frames, Vic.” She shrugs, hands slapping to her sides. “I mean, what are we doing here?”

“We are... looking...” He mumbles away into silence. He’s looking at the picture. The boy she’d pointed out earlier. She comes up behind him.

“Still don’t remember where you saw him?”

Shakes his head.

“Well...” She takes it from him. “I know he works at a McDonald’s. Can’t recall the address off the top o’ my head, I can forward it to you later.”

“McDonald’s.” Hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.

“Yeah... so – is there something you’re not telling me here?” Firoza steps back for her question. Maoro’s stumped.

“No? Not at all. Why?”

“I just – we’re here, and there’s clearly nothing more to find. We stripped this place, Vic.”

Maoro’s not convinced. Deep in thought. Hands in pockets, he strolls around the flat one more time. It’s grayer now. Dimmer. Void of life. Like a piece in a museum, instead of a home. It’s what the place had become.

“Jameson was a... collector.” He turns and scans the place, every corner, every beam. “He collected things, Firoza. He collected...” Grabs a miniature Statue of David off one of the shelves, hand-painted into obscurity. “He collected little – uh – curios. Little statues, dolls. He was weird like that. Is that weird?”

Firoza shrugs; she doesn’t want to interrupt whatever this is.

“He collected... newspapers, hell – who even reads that anymore... Look at these stacks.” Kicks one of the several, on the floor. “He collected news, he... stored them...” And he pulls apart a few of the pages, bound together with twine. “... Stacked... by date.”

“Really?” Firoza comes over to take a look. Indeed they were. Every stack. At least the top few papers.

“He wasn’t just a collector.” Maoro stands up straight again, scanning the ceiling. “He was a... an archiver. He... _sought..._ answers.”

“Is the analogy that – we should _seek_ more answers, Vic?”

Doesn’t answer. She’s getting a little frustrated. She’s left a lot of work behind for this.

“Apartment wasn’t... it was all fine...” He’s just talking to himself now. Monkeying about the place like it’s a playground. She’s never seen him like this.

“Vic... are you okay?”

“Hmm?” He’s at the little TV now. Old and off and dysfunctional.

“You don’t seem yourself today. Something on your mind?”

_You’re out of bleach._

“Nothing. Nothing on my... mind...” His hand runs down the side of the box. There’s a crease between the box and the back panel.

“The TV was on the day he died... static... when we got here... he didn’t get cable... why was it on?”

He tries to jam a fingernail in the crease, and it slides in.

“Firoza.”

“What?”

“We got a crowbar around here?”

“A – _what?_ He has a toolbox in the kitchen...”

“Good, go get it.” She’s perplexed, so he doubles down. _“Now,_ please. It’s important.”

She comes back with a jangly little box that’s seen at least a decade of rust. Kneels next to him and wrenches it open.

Couple of screwdrivers. A box cutter. Some old washers. A monkey wrench. And... an ice tray? And that’s it.

“These’ll do.” He picks up one screwdriver and hands her the other. “Slide it in here – see the crease? Gonna pop the back off. Ready? One – two –”

“Hold on.” She sighs and picks the box off its little legs and tilts it so the screen’s facing down. “Be easier this way.”

“Uh – yes. Yeah. Let’s – come on. One – you in?”

“I’m in, Vic.”

“Good, one – two – _three!”_

The back cover splinters down the middle. A little shoving and wiggling, and it’s prying off its nails.

“Christ – get your tetanus shot?” She gives them a wide berth and yanks her side of it clean off. “Want me to do yours?”

“I got it.”

He takes a second. Finally, it’s off, in a dusty, splintery mess. Fine velvet lining torn after decades of preservation. Oh well.

“That’s... cleaner than I thought it would be.”

And this is true. The trumpet-like tubular housing, the clusterfuck of little knobs and rods, all look fairly well-maintained. At least dusted a few times.

“Max would’ve loved this.”

“Who’s Max?” Firoza tests the innards for dust with a finger-wipe. “Oh, your technician? Thought she went by Maxine.”

He’s taken aback. Of course she does. He’s always called her Maxine. When did he start using Max? He shakes it off. Not the time to think about that. He knows where it leads again – the same image he’s been fighting all morning. Instead, he scans the inner walls of the box – and an immediate find emerges.

“... There. See?”

Duct-taped along the inner wall of the box, where there’s ample room around the TV’s machinery, is a small, thin little container. Gleaming silver.

“Holy shit.” Firoza takes a few quick images with her phone. “Did you bring-?”

“Yeah.” Maoro’s already putting gloves on, handing her a plastic bag. He peels away the tape with gentle precision, freeing the box from the wall. Brings it up close. Firoza leans in over his shoulder.

“It’s a... cigarette case.”

“M’yeah. Engraved too, you see that?”

_VINCIT OMNIA VERITAS_

“You know Latin?”

“I can look it up.” Firoza’s thumbs do a quick Google fly-by. “Truth... conquers... all things.”

“Hmm.” Maoro turns around. Nothing on the other side. “On a cigarette case? I guess if you have a sense of humor.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Yeah.” He cracks the case open – the lid is tight. A bit too tight. The case is heavier than it looks. The lid is barely off its clasp when the innards push it open and tumble back into the TV case. They’d been compressed in with considerable density.

“Shit.”

He fishes it out. It’s a piece of paper – old, stained, and folded many times. Enough to fit into a cigarette case – but only just.

“Vic, this is... how did you know?”

“I didn’t. Here – by the light.” They get to their feet and place the pages on a tiny writing desk McGrier had lodged between two open-faced cabinets. There’s a lamp. It’s clicked on and the new evidence is placed gently on varnished wood.

“It’s not... just one page...” He unfolds it. No, it’s several pages. Photographs too – polaroids. Folded and bent and creased and faded, but still legible. Each photo has a three-digit number scrawled in the white space. 

“Why didn’t your team find this?” She’s gaping at it all, drinking it in.

“They’re... I dunno.” The documents are few in number – three, to be precise. A handwritten letter. A print-out of something. And a drawing. He goes for the photos first. So does she.

“Looks like a... mansion? Stalking out a property?” She’s right. The front of a palatial home, white pillars and big wooden doors, marred by the unfocused chain link against the camera lens.

“Taken discreetly, just beyond a fence...”

“This is a barn, looks like.” She places another photo categorically on the desk. A dilapidated barn with large chunks missing, fenced off with some measly planks.

“This is... a stairwell... going down...” A flight of steps descend from a muddy floor and into dark caverns the camera flash didn’t reach.

Maoro leans in. “That’s... is that grass?”

“It’s hay–”

“–Hay. Inside the same barn?”

“Maybe.” Places it next to the first photo. Mansion goes on the other side of the barn.

“Who’s this?” A blurry photo of what looks like a man. An old man. Standing on fresh cut grass, in an extravagant blue dressing gown. Talking to someone who’s facing away from the camera. The number below provides no answer to her question.

“Couldn’t make out, at a distance like that.”

“What do you think these numbers mean? They’re not dates.”

No answer. There’s another photo of what looks like a numerical keypad, old and darkened, against a metal wall.

“End of the stairwell, d’you think?”

“Might be, yeah.”

“Where the hell is all this?” Maoro fans out the photos. Two more – one of young girl. She smiled for the shot. The other one is the same girl, this time with her arms around a boy.

“Hey, that’s–” Firoza grabs the last photo and whips around to the framed picture on the wall across from them.

“Same kid.” Maoro strides across, stepping over the naked TV, grabs the picture and brings it back to compare. It’s the same mystical being – messy blonde hair, short, lanky, brooding. He’s a bit younger in the polaroid.

“Aaron Vonn.”

“Aaron... Vonn...” And it still doesn’t ring a bell. Try as he might. Were has he seen this kid before? Is it simply a trick of the mind? Has his memory faltered with age? He’s angry at himself. This is ridiculous.

“You think we should bring him in?”

“Might be an idea.” Maoro picks up the printed document. “Look at this.”

Firoza’s brows crease as she struggles to read the bleeding ink on tiny letters. They’re screenshots, resized and printed on a single page.

“Howard Roark Construction... Oregon State hydroelectric... These are – bills?”

“Invoices. Someone was tracking... invoices.” Maoro gives them a quick scan just as she did. “For what?”

“Power bills... for some place.”

“Who’s paying?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“What’s this?” Maoro traces a finger down to the last screenshot on the page. It’s another invoice. “Fourteen thousand dollars? Made out to... Ex... Excalibur... Corp?” Saying the words out loud made him remember. The realization slams him like a flung brick to the face.

“Holy shit–”

“I know what that is.” Firoza lays it down on the desk to get a better look at the numbers. “It’s a private security company. Corporate protection, private guards? They operate out of–”

“Nevada.” Maoro’s eyes stare beyond the walls of this dingy little place, out over the skies of the city and beyond. This couldn’t be real.

Firoza’s surprised. “How’d you know? They don’t advertise.”

“No. No they don’t.” He wrenches his gaze from the abyss and leans over the desk, checking the second document. Another printed page – typed notes. Firoza wants to press further, but decides against it. She doesn’t like the look in his eyes.

“Look at this.” He shoves the page across the desk. “Any of that make sense?”

She begins reading, but it might as well have been in Latin too.

_Vesuvius Project – confirmed targets:_

_\- Jane Clearwood (ref. p150)_

_\- Edith Horvac (deceased – ref. p161)_

_Vesuvius Project - potential targets:_

_\- Daniel Diaz (ref. classified: 003 – 2017 border incident + CIA_E1003-WG343)_

_\- Vaas Melthus Shyde (ref. classified: 004 – Wash. St. Pen. Psych. Eval #6473)_

_\- Nathan Prescott (ref. Special folder: “phrophet_accounts_interviews” + Oreg. St. Pen. Psych. Eval #434)_

“Vic... this is...”

“Some kind of conspiracy nut?” He lets Firoza have the page and moves on to the letter. His hand is shaking a bit. That’s odd, to say the least, he thinks. She’s taking pictures of everything.

“Conspiracy nut? I thought he was a ‘collector’...”

“Vesuvius Project? That sound familiar to you?”

She shakes her head. “Never heard of it. Vesuvius is a–”

“– Volcano, yeah. Don’t see the connection.”

“Any of these names ring a bell?” She implores him. “Look – this one – these two names? That’s Washington State Penitentiary. That’s Oregon State. These are prisons. You think these two are inmates there?”

He’s got the letter in one hand, eyes on the other page. “Very well could be. I don’t recognize them. I don’t know, I’m getting old. Can’t remember anything these days...” Aaron’s face jabs into his train of thought again. Where the fuck-?

“We can look them up when we–”

“–Yes, we also have to file this into evidence first. It’ll be a day. I need to let my team know... have them come down here...” He’s got his phone out, dialing. Ringing.

“Miriam? I need a field-out. McGrier’s place. Jameson McGrier’s apartment. You remember it? Bring your kits. All of you. ASAP.”

“Edith Horvac was a homicide case from two years ago.” Firoza’s on her phone. “Vic, same town as the one McGrier used to live in.”

Maoro looks up, not even surprised. “Arcadia Bay?”

“Arcadia Bay. And Jane... Clearwood... let me search the city’s website – yes. Yup – here, look.”

Maoro leans in to read. “Jane Clearwood... missing since...”

“Same town. And I bet you... twenty bucks...” There’s a picture of Jane on the city webpage, next to her information. It’s a familiar picture. It’s the same girl in two of the polaroids they found. She brings them up to her phone screen to compare.

“And...” Maoro grabs the framed photograph of the group. One of the kids – there she is. Next to Aaron Vonn, in fact. Jane Clearwood.

“You think McGrier was involved with her going missing?” Firoza snaps a few more photos as she speaks.

“Looks like he was trying to find her.”

“I can’t tell. He’s trying to find something, alright. I need a deep-dive into this Vesuvius thing, gotta pull up data on Vonn and Clearwood, talk to this Aaron kid – I have to get back to the office.”

Maoro nods. “Right, go. If you see Ramsey, tell him to call me first. And, uh – hey – drive safe.”

She shrugs, eyes wide. “Yeah. Always do. See you, Vic.”

She’s out. The silence now is hefty. A muffled stream of canned television laughter emanates three walls away, giving him some comfort. He’s looking at the letter. He’s been trying to read it while Firoza was talking. Now that he’s alone, it’s a different beast he’s holding.

The letter is short. He grabs the little chair and sits down, dropping it on the table. Rubs his face with both hands, blinking some stability back into him. This is more than he’d bargained for.

The upended TV is lying face down in the middle of McGrier’s apartment, much like his corpse a month ago. Innards exposed to the world, secrets laid bare. He’s not proud of his find. He’s angry.

_Too easy._

Yes, it was. Even a month late – even in a place nobody had though to look – this was too easy. This information was surely more valuable than something you stuff in a cigarette box and tape to the inside of your old TV. Was McGrier outdated in his ways to that degree? He was old, nobody would’ve questioned it...

_Then why am I now?_

Because it’s too simple. Even undeciphered, these documents are telling. They point to a lot. And it’s evident from the numbering on the photos, and the numbers in the reference texts under Vesuvius, that there’s a lot more. These are not the only documents. Not the only photos.

“Herring.” Maoro lets some air into his mouth to try and get his voice back. The logbook had been a red herring – a secret hidden drawer, you’d think any reasonable snooper would’ve left it at that. But he, he’d broken open the old TV and discovered gems, only to find them impossibly small, begging to be pieces of a much greater whole, dangling before him, tantalizingly close. What else is this dead old man hiding?

His team would be here soon. He’d have to collect everything here, have them do a secondary sweep. That would yield results. Now they’re vigilant. They know McGrier’s MO. Or at least, he hopes he does.

_Something else on your mind?_

He scrolls past his contacts on his phone until Robbie’s name rolls in. He’s been meaning to call her. Ever since this morning. Since the dream. Now, he’s not so sure anymore. Now, he needs to call her, more than ever before. He must. Before anyone learns about this. Who knows if she’ll even pick up? She’s busy... always busy...

_Doing what?_

The question has a lot more weight to it than he wants. Call her. Get it over with. Just like how you did with Max.

_Maxine. Not Max._

He feels things slipping again. A sudden urge to be back in the shower, where he can feel the walls against his palms, and the scalding hot water keeps him aware and alive, and the ground isn’t shaking.

He presses call and brings the phone up to his ear. It’s ringing.

Maoro stands up and strolls to the window, curtains drawn. Yanks them open. Daylight is back, albeit for a short visit. The skies are blotched and white, starlight engaged in its daily fight to penetrate the skin of the earth and its dwellers. The streets are wet, and the cars show no mercy. He watches, listening to the rings, as a quaint yellow Beetle slows down to avoid splashing pedestrians, to the dismay of the line of cars behind it. A little show of kindness goes a long way. People still haven’t lost their way, and it reassures him. Faith isn’t so fragile. Especially not with Robbie.

While time stands still in this apartment, where dust never seems to settle, the world outside moves like clockwork, unhindered, as he watches. It’s a comforting sight.

*

“And... what else – oh! Make sure Victoria gets the Albany invoice for the surplus order you mentioned.”

“You got it.”

Kate’s talking to her dashboard as she drives. Kashaf on speakers. Baking tray wrapped in tinfoil on the passenger seat. A red light incoming. She comes to a halt, relieved. She’s never been a fan of talking and driving.

“I’m sorry to drop all this on you.”

“Don’t even, Kate. It’s my job.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, so just leave me a note on my desk for whatever’s still left, okay? No pressure.”

“Yes, chief!”

She giggles as the lights bounce to green. “I have to go – got another call coming. See you, Kashaf.”

“Take care.”

There was indeed another call. It’s Warren. The boy always gets a bit too excited. She takes a right turn before answering.

“Hey Warren, I’m on my way. What’s up?”

Silence. Someone’s clearly on the other end – she can hear the white noise. Even a little breathing.

“Hello? Warren?”

“... Kate?”

It’s not Warren. She nearly brakes on impulse.

“Oh my – Max? Is that you?”

She’s frantically looking for a place to pull over.

“Hi, Kate...” Her voice is trembling, and soft, like she’s afraid to break something. Kate can hear her smile.

“Max, it’s been – wow – how are you!?” Still no good place to pull over – ah, here it is. It’s charged parking. She’ll take it.

“I’m... good. It’s been way too long. You’re coming to Warren’s, right?”

“Yup.” She brings the car to a halt and unbuckles, picks up her phone to speak more clearly. “Yeah, I’m just on my way. He told me I’d be surprising you. Guess he didn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“You’ll still surprise me. I can’t wait to see you.” There’s that smile again.

“Me neither, we haven’t met since – I don’t even remember. So I heard you were in the hospital? Is everything okay?”

Nothing’s okay. Things haven’t been this far from okay in a long time.

“Yeah, it’s all fine – just – I...”

Kate waits patiently. Max seems a little scattered. She’s concerned.

“... I’ll tell you when you get here. Just get here soon, okay?” A little note of desperation there.

“Of course – see you there.”

And she hangs up.

That was bizarre. Kate knows there was something else she had to say. Something she couldn’t, over the phone, perhaps? She didn’t sound okay.

She glances at the wrapped lemon bars beside her. She’d never forgotten what Max had done for her, all those years ago. Even considering the circumstances surrounding them at the time. An all-knowing voice, eerily omniscient, unabashedly kind. And strangely disconnected from the world she tried to heal. Max had begun showing signs of withdrawal from people since then. Kate had seen it. It wasn’t a few years until they stopped talking altogether. Until Max and Warren broke up. Until she got a new phone number and forgot to tell anyone. Until she was just a ghost.

No ghosts would walk untethered if someone had the guts to reach out to them. Kate knows what it’s like to be on the other end. Whatever’s going on, whatever reasons Max had for pulling away and whatever she’s going through now – she won’t be alone. Kate starts the car up again and pulls out, looking both ways.

Maxine had called to tell her Warren’s missing. But hearing her voice – like a memory, words carved on a tree somewhere in her mind she’d completely forgotten about – it’s a tad overwhelming. Kate Marsh is materializing, first as a familiarity, then as a face, and finally – a friend. It’s not clear how long they’ve been friends. Can’t remember where they met. But she feels immense affection and even a sense of protectiveness for someone she hadn’t remembered for years. Why was Kate lost in that monstrous ether she refused to penetrate? Maxine knows she’ll have to traverse back one day. Kate’s presence may trigger something she’d regret. Or it may heal. She'd decided to tell Kate in person. Maybe break the news easy. Warren's missing. But he might just be out for something. It could be serious, or nothing at all. Just let her come first. 

She puts down Warren’s phone and crosses her arms. Looks around the apartment. Still empty. Still silent. Now, it’s a waiting game. She could really use a pick-me-up – does he have anything in the pantry?

A few minutes of searching. Maxine used to keep teas here. Now, all he has is instant coffee. A large stash of instant noodles, canned beans and party-sized bags of potato chips comprise a chunk of the cupboard. It’s not a pleasant sight. She’ll have a talk with him about that later. When he shows up. Because of course he will. He’s just off his rocker, he’s just out for a smoke or something. People forget their phones all the time. It’s not healthy being glued to your phone. Not healthy at all.

She puts the kettle on and settles for coffee. The kettle is the same one she’d bought a few years ago. Some things stay the same, and it’s a small comfort.

A spoonful of coffee and sugar in the cup. Warren’s out of milk and cream. No powders in the pantry. This would do. She waits for the water to boil. The kettle will beep and the built-in lights will turn bright green when it’s hot enough.

She’d never dreamed, a week ago, that she’d be back here again. Let alone the circumstances around it. She misses her apartment. The leftover takeout chicken in the fridge probably isn’t good anymore.

Maybe one of the investigators ate it, she thinks. That’d be nice. They’d have a good snack and it wouldn’t go to waste. She leans against the kitchen door frame, watching the sky through the big windows and sliding door of the balcony across from her. The apartment’s washed in a gentle spill of grey light, shadows stark and deep. This kitchen is very much like her own.

The events that brought her here are clear, and she’s thankful that her memory doesn’t fail her in that regard. The little detail about that night she’d left out of every single account, even ones given to Maoro and Warren, is something she wonders if she’ll ever be able to share with anyone. Is anyone crazy enough to actually believe that? Had she ever known anyone like that?

“No.” Gritted teeth. “No...”

The body’s presence looms over her, and yet, answers remain unclear. The coroner’s report has come through, though. This, she knows. When will they inform her? She checks her phone instinctively for any calls or texts – nothing. She wonders how Voyeres and his team would look at her if she’d shared that little detail with anyone at all. Hell, they already think she’s a little weird – and she’s okay with that, it’s understandable, really. But this? This is beyond them. It’s beyond her. She can’t conceive of how this could be real.

She hasn’t tried to rationalize it. She knows it’s real. The water’s ready.

Maxine swings back up to go take the kettle off the heat. But when the rumbling of the water stops, a different sound fills the dead-silent apartment. She’s frozen, hot water in hand, head turned and eyes on Warren’s bedroom door.

It’s ajar. She’d left it so. She’s checked in there when she got here. Empty. And yet, this very moment, she hears voices. More than one. A man, and a woman. Warren, and...

But that’s impossible. The room was empty. She can hear him speak.

“Where will you go?”

And she can hear her speak. A very, very familiar voice. Maxine’s hand is trembling.

“I have to find home. She’s probably worried sick. I’ll be back soon. Here, you – you keep this. It’ll help me find you again.”

Maxine sets the kettle down as quietly as she can and inches closer to the door to hear better.

“What is this?” Warren.

“It’s a part of me. Now it’s a part of you. When I’m in the Bleed – it’ll help me find you. Okay?”

She has the sudden urge to burst in there and see who the other woman is. But she’s terrified. The voice is entirely too similar. So, so similar...

“Is that how it works? You still haven’t explained–”

“Because I don’t know either, Warren. It’s... insane. I’m figuring it out. I just know that I can... feel... the places and the times I’m welcome in. Parts that make me feel... whole. Right now, the only place for that is... home. But I think if you keep this – I don’t know, maybe...”

Maxine puts a hand on the wall to steady herself. The voice is unmistakable. It’s surreal.

“Just hold on to it for me, okay? I’ll see you again.”

“Okay. Be safe out there... I guess.”

And the woman laughs.

And as she does, Maxine feels a sudden lack of something – like a deficiency, a swift expulsion of air and matter, like a door closing, cutting off the breeze and sounds of the rooms beyond. The feeling goes as fast as it comes. She’s still right by the door.

Footsteps. The door swings open, and she sees Warren’s face for the first time in days.

He’s speechless. He simply stares, and backs away from her. She looks behind him – the room is empty.

“Warren? Who... who was here?”

He’s in a real struggle. After a few stutters, he shakes his head and stalks right past her, into the living room. She’s still scanning the room – there’s nowhere this woman could’ve gone. Nowhere at all.

“You know, I was at the hospital,” Warren mumbles from behind her. “I waited, like twenty minutes. You didn’t come.”

He’s frantic, his head zipping about the place, looking for something. “You know, it’s not like I don’t enjoy sitting in the lobby by myself watching _paint dry_ – but I appreciate a heads-up if you’re gonna bail on me again, you know?”

“Warren, I–”

“Where’s my – did you see my–?” He realizes he can’t ask her if she’s seen his booze, because she’s the one who got him to quit drinking.

“Your rum bottle? It’s in the trash.” She comes out to the living room too. Steadying herself. “Why are you drinking again? Please talk to me. What’s going on?”

He runs both hands through his hair and laughs at the floor, eyes watering. “I – I – holy fuck, I, uh – I need to sit down, is what’s going on, I need to sit down...”

She backs off. “Okay. Okay...”

He crashes on the couch and stares out at the balcony. She’s behind him, slowly coming around to see his face. Making sure her voice isn’t threatening. Her presence isn’t a burden.

“You don’t have to talk... okay? But I – I didn’t _bail_ on you, Warren.”

He still doesn’t look. Still not convinced.

“I was coming down to meet you, but I got pulled in by detectives. They wanted to question me about the body. About a lot of shit. I tried to call you as soon as I got out. I texted too.”

He gives his phone a little glance. It’s on the coffee table. “Oh.”

“And I – I talked t-to Kate.”

That gets his attention. “Kate called?” Motions to his phone.

“Uh – yeah. And I... picked up.” A little white lie at this point should help ease this out, she hopes. She’s already tossed his booze, knowing she’d also gotten into his phone would be a bit much.

“What happened? Is she not coming?” His voice is strangely detached, eyes unfocused.

“No, she’s coming. She’ll be here soon.”

“Okay.” He seems a little more grounded now. Kate’s on her way. She’s expecting a fun get-together of old friends – not whatever this is. He gets to his feet.

“Max, I – I, uh – I’m... sorry... I just... my head...”

And he closes his eyes, breathing heavy. She’s terrified. Runs to the kitchen to pour out the water into the cup; a few stirs and it’s ready. Brings it to him.

“Here. It’ll help. Can I... sit here?”

He takes the cup and nods without looking. They both sit back down. He takes a sip, and the velvety, dusty, sweet, hot liquid springs him awake, blowing fog out of his eyes.

“Will you _please_ tell me where you were?” She leans over to see him properly. “You were gone, I checked everywhere, I checked in there. And then you walk out of the room? And who was with you?”

He just shakes his head, a little smile on his face, a crazed look in his eyes. “Max... I, I, uh – I can’t – I can’t talk about it... I – the things I just saw... oh, god. Oh, god.”

“Why can’t you talk about it?” She puts both hands on him, rubbing his arm. “It’s just me and you. What, you think I won’t believe you?”

He laughs again. “You – I can’t talk to _you,_ about it... you’re – you – you can’t deal with that stuff, right? You can’t talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” She’s puzzled. But somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, she knows. And a familiar panic sets in. A hotness around the ears. Instinctive warning signs. She ignores them this time. It’s more than just about her, now.

“Max, you panic if we talk about that stuff, so let’s not. You don’t even remember it.”

“Fuck that. Tell me.” She’s already breathing much deeper than she should be. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice. He needs to get this out. She knows he needs to talk about it.

“Tell me, Warren. Please.”

And he looks at her for properly for the first time. She’s here, she’s real, and she’s asking him to guide her into turmoil so he can have solace. It wakes him up more than the coffee does. He takes her hand in his own. Takes a deep breath.

“Okay, Max... uh... Just – just tell me if this is too much for you, okay? Because we don’t have to talk about it–”

“Warren.”

“Okay.” Another deep breath. “So – that other voice, you heard? That was... it was, uh – it was you.”

She’s quiet. Waits for him to explain.

“You, from... another – I don’t wanna say, reality, more like another – another strain of, uh... of events – it’s – it sounds – I know, I know, how it sounds, okay? But I’m telling you the truth, so please–”

She shakes her head to stop him. “Just – okay, you saw _me?”_

“Not exactly you. Well, yeah, you, but you were – different. You looked different, you talked different. You were...” He wants to say “better” but thinks it unwise.

“I was what?”

“You... well, _she..._ the, Other Max... said she came from _her_ world, she calls home, to this one, to try and fix... ugh, Jesus.” He grabs the coffee and takes another swig, scalding his tongue. “Something – went wrong – in her world, and it’s all, like, it’s all fucked. Everything’s getting ruined, disasters everywhere, earthquakes, eruptions, wildfires, riots – storms.” He looks at her with pleading eyes, praying she’ll hang onto sanity, she’ll fight the panic and the pull of her own mind.

She nods. Manages a word. “Okay.” She’s breathing even slower now. Shallower. He holds her hand tighter, with both of his.

“And she’s looking for a way to... she said, something like, ‘change the terms’. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know. I tried asking. But she wouldn’t say.”

Maxine looks away from him, toward the balcony behind her. She’s aching for some air. Before she passes out.

“And she took me... she showed me... her side. Her world. That’s – why I was gone.”

“Sh-she... took you?”

“We – she called it ‘bleeding’, we left this, uh – this – this plane, and entered a – I guess you call it a – like a hallway. A hallway of doors. And my world was a door we came through, and she took me to another door. And I saw...”

His eyes fill with unfiltered horror. “I saw how it got. How bad it was. Max... She needs my help. She wants to save her world, and save...”

Maxine wrenches her hand out of his and leaps for the balcony, pulling the door open and stepping out. It’s hard to breathe. She gulps in the fresh cold air like water. Grips the railing. Warren’s swift.

“MAX! Get away from there–”

But she waves him away, nods, to show she’s not losing it. Just needs some space. Some time. He steps back. Okay. It’s okay.

“So...” She’s gripping the railing with both hands now. “So you – you _went_ – what – to another world? With another me? And she brought you back and said she’ll come again? That’s it?”

He can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. It’s not like her. “No, that’s not it. There’s a lot more. But Max...” And he comes closer again, lowering his voice. “It has to do with... all that stuff you buried away, everything you – you locked away, you told me all of it, all those secrets, and I – I believed you, I believed every word, okay? You said you’d bury it to prevent _any more damage_ , and if I tell you–”

His voice catches. He’s about to tear up. He can’t do this to her.

“If I tell you... you said – you told me – if that ever comes up again, and you remember it all, and you – you end up using ... your, your – _ability –_ then it’ll all be for nothing, Max.”

He’s already said too much.

“Max? Holy shit – your nose–”

She brings up a finger to her face and feels a warm wetness. Blood. It rolls down her face and drips to the concrete of his balcony floor, staining it. And there’s a splitting pain in her head, shattering, and she buckles over and groans, and opens her eyes to see a very different floor she’s standing on.

The wind is fierce. It’s a screaming gale. Crazed, and unstoppable, it topples her, and she struggles to get back on her feet. She’s standing on cracked cement, The vast open sky above her black with ashen clouds she’d never seen before, and the winds blow her hair back and she can’t keep her eyes open. She screams Warren’s name, but her voice doesn’t go far beyond her own ears. There’s nobody else here.

It’s a terrace. Shattered, and tilted, and falling. She’s standing on the terrace of a building. A taller structure looms over her, broken and poised to collapse, its shattered windows hollow and empty and black. It sways and groans like a decrepit beast as the wind chips away at it. She grabs the edge of the terrace and pulls herself up.

Below her, a vast city stretches into the horizon, crumbling under the weight of an endless ocean crashing into its buildings and roads, drowning civilization until high-rises topple into the tumultuous waves and crumble like dust against the unforgiving force of it all. The city’s being devoured. Roads are consumed. The tallest structures protrude from the water like spikes, being worn down and washed away by the relentless flood. She recognizes some of the buildings. Some of the skyline that still remains. It’s Seattle.

The horizon is a blazing streak of red, angry and bloody, fracturing into impenetrable clouds that mask the earth in malice. She can’t tell if it’s raining. The wind is too strong. The world is burning, drowning before her, and she feels the walls within her mind shift and make way, the channels of fog blocking her view thin out, and ancient secrets call to her from shadowy depths like a beacon. Amidst a storm, like a lighthouse.

A hand touches her shoulder, and she blinks, and she’s back. Warren’s on the floor with her, both arms around her, frantic.

“Max – fuck – are you here? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” He’s wiping the blood off her face, tears streaking his own.

“I’m... here.”

For the first time in years, she is. She puts a hand on his face and sits up, drying his cheeks. “I’m... I’m here. Warren.”

And they both notice, for they hadn’t before, the snowfall. They look up together, at the sky, from where it comes. It’s not snow. It falls on them and beyond, across the street and over the buildings, through the city, onto cars and people below.

“Did – did you – did you see something?” He asks, trying to calm himself. “Did you remember something?”

It’s not snow. She reaches out to grab a fleck of the gentle precipitation. It breaks down in her hand like dust, dark and crumbly.

“Is this snow?” Warren looks up too, shielding his eyes, as it gets in his face.

It’s not. She runs it across her hands and watches it stain her, paint her skin.

They’re ashes. Crumbling ashes falling like settling dust, gracing hard surfaces and even edges in every direction, smattering the footsteps of people as they walk, looking up in awe. The white sky is speckled with blackened ash. 

“Warren.” She calls to him and he looks back, looking for any sign that she’s okay.

“Tell me. Tell me everything.”


	6. Five Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan meets an unexpected ally. Aaron's request to Maurice has far-reaching consequences.

“I found you. You’re alive. Thank god... you’re alive. I missed you.”

She speaks into his shirt, breath hot and voice muffled. Hands clasped on him, around his neck. She’s on her toes a little bit. He’s still leaning back from the weight of her. Warren forces his arms to reciprocate the hug – short, swift and gentle; not a real one. Not like the one she’s giving him.

“Uh – Max?” It’s strange to even call her that. He tries to push her off – gently – but she won’t budge. She actually grips him tighter.

“Just let me...” She’s very quiet. “Just...”

They’re like this for a bit longer, and he’s really not handling it well.

“Okay – hey – alright now...”

He sort of manages to push her arms away a little, and she relents. They stand facing each other now as she looks into him.

It’s Max Caulfield. This much is certain. But not at all the one he knows. Yes, her hair’s different – those highlights are new, but they look old. The clothing is vibrant and really not her style. Her face is fresher, eyes less darkened by the sleepless nights he knows all too well. Her posture less slouched. She looks... cleaner, somehow. Warren’s disbelief corrodes. Into fear. He takes a step back. She’s not surprised – or at least doesn’t look it.

“Who... wh-who are you?” He’s got one hand raised in defense, warning her to stay there.

“Max,” she says simply. “Why – am I dead here? I don’t think so...”

“What!?”

“Shit – sorry, I’ll explain. Can I... sit down? Can we?” She gestures at the couch. Warren’s not convinced. He moves around the couch, away from her, taking the long way. She hasn’t moved at all. Waiting for him to be comfortable.

“You can sit down.” He points jerkily. Terrified though he may be, he’s unbearably curious. Not to mention – this makes a lot of sense. The more he thinks about it.

“Thanks.” She takes a seat, a little awkward. Looking around. “So this is... your place. Took me a while to find you, you know.”

“Find me. You – you _found_ me?” Warren’s standing across the coffee table, rum bottle between them. She spots him glance at it.

“You... drink now.” Doesn’t sound too displeased, or impressed. “Are you an alcoholic, Warren?” She’s forcing down a grin.

“Wha- no, no, no – that’s just – this isn’t about me!” Getting defensive, not a good start. “Who are _you?_ I mean – you said you’re Max, but...”

“But I’m – different. Right?”

“Yes?” He’s looking more tense by the minute. She feels bad.

“Warren, just – please calm down? It’s me. It’s Max! I know this is weird, but it’s me, really. Just – uh – ask – ask me anything. Something Max would know.”

He starts nodding, eyes wide. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay. When’s our anniversary?”

Her jaw drops. “You – we – you guys got _married!?”_ And she breaks into giggles. It’s truly bizarre. He blinks, thinking someone might’ve slipped him a hallucinogenic.

“No – sorry, I – I mean, I get it.” Her smile fades, and she looks off toward the wall behind him. “I probably would’ve too... if I didn’t, uh... if I didn’t have her... if you were still around.” She forces a smile back. Warren picks up on it.

“Her? Who’s her?”

“I’m not a threat, Warren. Sit down. Please. I’ll explain.”

She has a point. Warren’s frozen between two states of being, and he doesn’t appreciate it. He’s going to have to quell one to use the other. He picks his fascination over his misgivings. Moves over to sit down next to Max, keeping a few inches between them.

“So you’re not – uh... you’re not the Max I know?”

She’s relieved. He finally calmed down. She leans back a little.

“We used to know each other. At Blackwell. Until the storm anyway.”

His mouth is terribly dry. He gulps. “The storm.”

“Did it happen here?” She sits up. “Did the storm still happen?”

“What storm?” He knows what storm she’s on about. He knows everything. But he wants to hear it from her. See if the stories match.

She looks away, calculating. Looks back. “Is Arcadia Bay still around?”

“Yeah.”

“So it didn’t happen...” And her face falls again. “So... okay. I don’t have a – a phone or anything, so... I couldn’t look it up.”

He’s perplexed. “You... don’t have a phone?”

She grins again. “Where I’m from, they sorta went out of fashion.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

 _“That’s_ ridiculous?”

“... Yeah. No, you’re right.” He looks away, getting himself together. “So – uh... Jesus... could you just... tell me what’s going on, Max, please.”

Hearing him call her by name is reassuring. “Okay, so... do you know – or did you know about my...” She’s hesitant. Telling him this could be cataclysmic.

“Your rewind power? Yeah. You – she – she told me.” He’s half in mind to tell her that the other Max might be on her way here. But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. Some kind of Max is here, on his couch, with him. Any kind of Max would do, sometimes.

“Oh, thank god.” She laughs again. “I almost didn’t tell you. Anyway – so – you believe it, right?”

“Yes.”

“Has she ever shown you?”

“No, she – she doesn’t... uh... do that. Anymore.”

She leans back again. Looking even sadder all of a sudden. Her expressions bounce from despair to elation with seamless ease. It’s unnerving and bemusing to see.

“Yeah...” She starts playing with one of the folds of the couch cushion. “Yeah, she wouldn’t... here. I wouldn’t. Makes sense.”

He waits for her to continue. To make sense.

“So – anyway... I’m from another time. A different place. It’s like here, but...”

“You’re – you’re from another timeline. Another – what – reality?” He’s trying to sound unshaken. He’s very shaken.

“Pretty much. You catch on quick. Nerd.” She smiles again to try and ease his tension. “Didn’t think you’d believe me. But that’s... basically it. Yeah.”

“It’s not that unbelievable...” He considers telling her, for a moment, his discovery. The thing that made him call Max all those days ago, only to find her in a hospital. Not that he could show it to her now, anyway. Not that it even works for certain.

“Why not?” She catches on too.

“Um – it’s – well, I know about... Max’s rewind, so – you know – nothing seems crazy after that.” Let’s keep that under wraps for now.

She laughs. Hollow. “You’d be surprised.”

But he’s excited too, now. He can’t tell yet. “So – uh – um – so you – so how – how’d you get _here_? How’d you... figure that out?”

She takes a deep breath, one leg up on the couch, both hands over her knee. “It’s... called – well – I call it bleeding. Used to happen by accident at first. That was years ago. Scared the shit out of Chloe. And me.”

“Chloe?”

The name sounds heavier than it should. He feels a wave of terror and jerks around to see if Max heard it – but Max wasn’t even here. Well – _his_ Max wasn’t. It’s safe to talk about that.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing – you – Chloe... Price? You’re talking about... Chloe Price.” His voice is quieter, nonetheless. She smiles at the floor again, little warmer than before.

“Yeah. Chloe... Price. That’s her name.”

“She’s alive.” He’s not sure what to feel. Only that there might be a way – the tiniest sliver, a crack in the walls of this cave – some way for his Max to see light again. If only he could get it open. “She’s... alive. In your – your, uh – your – place? Your time?”

Max’s face falls yet again. “She’s not... here. Right?”

Warren shakes his head. “N-no. No, she... she got, uh...”

“Shot.” She nods, sniffing a little. “Yeah. I know.”

“Yeah. You do know. You – you pulled the fire alarm in the bathroom, didn’t you?”

Her eyes go wide. “You know about that!?”

“Max told me everything... back when she could... still talk about it.”

“She can’t talk about it...?”

Warren’s hit by bricks of memory too heavy to sustain. He shakes them off. Those days are past – no need to bring them up. Of course there’s a need to bring them up.

“Forget it. You – you were saying? About Chloe? What’s – what’s ‘bleeding’?”

“Well, uh...” Her leg comes off the couch and onto the floor. “It’s like... falling out of bed. While you’re still asleep. Or – or – you know that feeling when you’re about to fall asleep, and it feels like you – you missed a step going downstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that. It feels like that. Everything’s dark for a second. And then it’s... really, really bright.”

“Okay...?”

“First time was a nightmare. I didn’t know how. I couldn’t get back. I just kept calling her name, and I found a... I guess you could call it a window. That place is full of windows. Like... little bits of mirror glass. I could touch them. They were like... little chunks of time from here and there. But they all had... something to do with me. Even if I didn’t remember it ever happening.”

“You could... touch them?”

“I touched one. It felt... close. Like home. Nostalgic. So I touched it, and I got back where I was. With Chloe.”

“How long were you gone?” Warren knows what to ask.

“I had a feeling you’d get there. I was _never_ gone. I was still there. It was like no time had passed at all. But it felt like... twenty minutes.”

“Time dilation’s... immense.” He mutters to himself, eyes averting. “Could you – could you stand? Was there a floor? Did you feel gravity? Was it warm, or cold, or-? What – describe the place exactly. How big was it?”

“Slow down, Hawking,” she giggles again. “I didn’t notice... gravity. I guess not. I was kinda floating. It didn’t feel warm or cold. Room temp, I guess? Sounds weird to say... And the place was... it didn’t end. It went on forever. In every direction. Like tunnels made of... strings. With walls made of these... bits of glass.”

“What color was it?”

She’s a little annoyed now. But still the kind that makes you smirk. “You want to know the _color_ of it.”

He simmers down. “Right. Sorry. Forget it.”

But she’s still smiling. “You’re adorable. Still. Glad some things didn’t change.”

He shakes out a hollow chuckle. “Maybe more than you think.” He has the urge to kick off the couch and stroll over to his fish tank. It’s what he does when he’s down. Whenever he thinks about Max. The little things cheer him up. But he’s afraid if he takes his eyes off her, she’ll vanish. And he’ll wake up from an incredible dream, and all of this will have been a lie. A fiction.

“I can... show you.”

He looks back at her, and she’s still where she was, still Max – wholly unfamiliar, and yet strangely warm. Like a comforting flame, one he’d forgotten, so all he felt was the urge not to be burned. But it was coming back. Learning how to sit next to the fire, and be saved from the cold.

“You can show me?”

“Yeah. I can show you the Bleed. Do you wanna meet Chloe?”

“Yeah, no – that’s – whoa, just...”

“Warren.”

Eyes meet. She’s serious.

“If you really want to see. I can show you. I – I think you should see.”

“Why?”

“Because... it’s... it was really hard to find this string. And if you come into the Bleed with me, and then come back, it’ll be like – like a marked road. Am I making sense? I’ll be able to find you again. It won’t be as hard. You don’t have to be there long – just a few – just five minutes. Just long enough that the place can remember you. Does that make sense?” She cringes at her own explanation, like she knows how insane it sounds. 

It is making sense. He’s annoyed that it’s making sense to him. Some of it, anyway.

“But... why? Why are you doing this? Why are you here?”

She stands up. “Come on. Let’s see... what’s your favorite room?”

“Huh?”

“Come _on!”_ She drags him up to his feet by the arm. “Which room here is your favorite? Where you’re... uh... most – comfortable?”

“Why!?”

“Just tell me. It’ll make sense in a bit.”

He points to the left. “My – my bedroom... Hey!”

She’s already zoomed inside. He can hear her from in there. “Jesus, Warren. No wonder you caught on...”

She’s talking about the notes and sketches. He doubts she can infer any of it – but he really doesn’t know much about her. She very well could. He follows her in. Her eyes linger on the little book he’d been looking at, minutes before. Marked _2015._ She says nothing.

“Take my hand.”

He does. It’s easier than he wants it to be. They’re standing in the middle of the tiny room, right by the bed. She smiles at him. “You won’t even be gone. You’ll be right back here. At least... I think you will... you might be gone in real time. But we won’t be gone long. Just five minutes. It’ll be great!”

“Max...”

And beyond all his fascination, that lingering immensity he’d been hiding away leers through. The same feeling he’d get when he looked up at the rainy skies. The same sense that something was yet to come.

“Why are you here?”

But she just smiles again. A dwindling shadow of something sad beneath those eyes – but it’s gone, faster than it came, and he’s not sure he ever saw it. “You’ll see. Don’t let go. Ready?”

He nods. What else can he do? So he nods, and grips her hand tight as his blood thunders and his heart races, and hears a catastrophic _crack_ – like an immense stone wall shattering down the middle, a gunshot echoing through mountains; watches as the room around him – the walls, the floor, the furniture, the books and the world itself – distorts and bends, like broken light through water, and gets blown back, like branches of a tree against a violent gale, and a momentary blackness before his feet no longer have ground to stand on – and it’s unbearably bright.

*

“Hmmm-hmmm... burnin’ the midnight oil again... sittin’ down here... hmm-hmm... to the wind...”

The mud is dry. Vaas steps on crumpled grass with both hands behind his back, humming a tune he once knew well. Watches his shoe-clad feet take kindly to the firm ground – a luxury in these torrential times. He does a little hop on his toes to test the earth. He sinks a little, not getting the bounce he’d hoped for. Still damp below... still loose.

The yard is busy. A gang of middle-aged white men are huddled by the bleachers, hushed conversation and jittery eyes. The Hispanics congregate at the far end – they’ve taken the basketball court. Older walkers move in pairs and groups along the perimeter; very few who walk alone – like himself. The bars and concrete patches that make up most of the yard – they’re not as packed as usual. This is strange. Exercise is camp-mandated protocol. When the yard is open, the orange uniforms find themselves new colors to go by – and stick to their people. These camps go for the concrete, where weightless workouts are a daily grind. But today – less than half the usual crowd. Not as noisy. Some people haven’t come outside. Vaas is interested in this. An anomaly. It’s telling.

His eyes search for curiosities with no true effort. Anomalies that stand out, even with enough discretion to avoid the gaze of eagles – but Vaas can see them all. The blue blade of grass on an unassuming hill, the aberrant pigeon in a flock, poised to stray – the palpable change in the air when the minds and hearts of people are fundamentally unveiled.

“... I just called to tell you... that I miss you... my old friend... Hmm-hmm-hmm...”

He walks past the group of huddled men and they freeze upon his approach. Vaas is unfazed, but he does notice, and he lets them know with a glance. They wait until he’s out of earshot to continue.

He looks up at the sky – unbearably vast. It hasn’t been clear for a while, but there’s something strange about it today. Vaas knows this. He can see it – see what isn’t yet; what is to be, what has been, and what is – all tenets of reality that reverberate through these vessels of sentience that walk alongside him. People are his devices to listen to the network of causality around him, the cyclical cosmic dance of creation and annihilation that people usually only experience in real time, and have no time to understand. But Vaas does. Vaas always knows.

And today, through the people who look upon the sky with him, he feels a slow shift in the state of things. Like the unnerving sight of an ocean tide pulling back, back, far back beyond its usual low – until the dirty underbelly of the beach is laid bare, and the garbage of men juts out of the sand, and the ocean builds strength to strike with a wave nobody can outrun. Like the eerie stillness of a stationary hurricane, which seems to move neither here nor there – until you know, without certainty and without time, that it moves toward you. Although no more turbulent than the days before, the sky today feels the same way. An overwhelming wash of an impending finality. The people, they may feel it too, even if they’re unable to understand. That’s fine. They don’t need to know. Vaas always prefers it that way. He learns through them. The state of things is changing, shifting irrevocably. Sand, slipping between toes.

“... burnin’ the midnight... oil again... hmm-hmmm...”

Fear. That’s what runs rampant in the veins of the collective conscious beast that he can hear and feel. Is he, himself, afraid? It’s irrelevant, he thinks. His own fear may as well be a subsequence of his alignment with the strings of reality, the unsettled dust that builds time and space around them all. Today, people are afraid. They don’t know, of what – it’s a lingering smell in the air that sets people off. Guards are up today. Vaas, of course, knows why. But in this case, it’s got little to do with his generous peripherals. In this case, he’s responsible for this unsettled dust.

“Shyde.” A taller, younger man with an eyepatch nods at Vaas as they pass. He’s with a group of his own race, who all shift their eyes. They’re headed for the bars now. Basketball warm-up is over.

“Diaz.” Vaas nods back with a gentle smile and keeps moving.

But something else was amiss today. Something beyond the looming obvious. Something that struck Vaas outside of his transcendental peripheral – something right under his nose. His skin.

“Hey, Diaz?”

Vaas stops to turn and look back at the group, who all halt in their tracks. Diaz is the only one to look back; the others preoccupy themselves.

“Yeah?”

“You see Prescott out here today?” Vaas asks casually, hands still clasped behind his back. Diaz gives the yard a cursory glance and shakes his head.

“Nathan Prescott? Don’t really keep an eye out for him, Shyde. But no, haven’t seen ‘em.”

“ _Would_ you keep an eye out for him?” Vaas’ tone is appeasing, like an old man asking a youngster to help him move a couch. But everyone there knows it’s more than that. “Just for me, just as a favor. Just for today, at least. Let me know if you see him?”

Diaz takes longer than his people are comfortable with, to consider the proposal. Vaas never breaks his gaze.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Thank you.” There’s that smile again. It doesn’t seem to bother Diaz, though. Vaas suspects he lied. No – he _knows_ it was a lie. Diaz has no intention of informing Vaas. But now a seed’s been planted – Vaas is looking for Nathan Prescott. Word will spread, and wheels will turn. He trusts his own name.

*

_Urth Caffé_

_Exclusively Organic Coffees and Fine Teas_

A picture snaps the homely title gracing eggshell walls, shutter sound crunching out of a phone in landscape mode. The hands holding it bring it down and their owner looks up again, a brief glance at the name. She sends the picture to a contact and puts the phone down on her sun-bathed table. The sky is pristinely blue and the air is warm for this time of year. A rarity in these times.

“See it?” She speaks into her Bluetooth earpiece, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Yeah.” A crackly man’s voice seeps through. “Yeah, okay. Lotta cafes on this street. Yeah, I see you. I see it. On my way.”

She hangs up and focuses on the coffee. She’s had better – but it’s far from terrible. Maybe they’re better with teas...

A hefty black Range Rover pulls up in an empty parking spot across the street. She watches, cup in hand and leaning back, as the man stumbles out, scans around for a paying booth and gets a slip. He then makes his way across the street, no care for the crosswalk a few meters down the road. It’s low traffic anyway.

The patio isn’t too crowded today either. He lumbers over with his puffy red jacket and his golfers’ club cap and his silver-rimmed Raybans. Sits down across from her without really looking.

“Morning, Ed.”

“Didn’t think I’d even see you here, Maria,” he begins. He’s an older man and his voice comes out slower than he’d like. “Everybody told me you’re a – a – what’s the word, a – _mirage._ Real hard to get a hold of.” And he cracks a grin. So does she.

“Well, I didn’t know I had a cult following.”

“That’s what you get with a Medal of Valor.” He reaches for his pocket before spotting the no smoking sign and scowling with palpable malice. She sips her coffee some more.

“You want anything?”

“No, I’m not staying long. Gotta pick up my granddaughter from ‘coding camp’. God Almighty, what these little shits get up to – at her age, I played baseball. I was in the Scouts! Coding camp...”

“So we’ll keep it brief then.” She sets her cup down, hoping he’ll take the hint and get to his point.

“Yeah, yeah – alright.” He leans in close and lowers his voice, but she stays against her chair, legs and arms crossed.

“So – I wanted to tell you in person – _today_ – because there’s been a... what do I call it, uh – an _information leak,_ which may be of interest to you. And I don’t know who’s listening to who right now, so it’s better we talk face to face.”

She crosses her brows. “Information leak? In your branch?”

“No, a friend of mine – up in Seattle. She found out about an unauthorized inquiry into a precinct database for some local homicide case there. Third party pulled some strings, we don’t know who, but my friend reckons it’s one of his own – she had some guesses but didn’t name names.”

“So who busted in? Ex-cop, you think?” She’s interested now. Not bothering to lowering her voice, though.

“Best bet – don’t think anyone on the force would have the nuts to do that without getting caught. M’friend said they traced the address of the inquirer... bounced off. Scrambled.”

“Knows what they’re doing.” She goes for another sip. Still waiting to get to the point. The old man likes to spin a tale, least she can do is humor him. Just a bit. “Go on.”

He sticks one elbow on the armrest and leans back, cracking his spine. “Yeah, they know, but not so much – my guess is it’ll take some doing, is all. So – this information in question... my friend knows that I know _you,_ and he knows _about_ you. She specifically knows about the Diaz case.”

She’s not so casual anymore, in her eyes at least. Sits up, both feet on the ground, elbows on the table.

“The Diaz case. Your friend knows, how?”

“She was CIA before. Left just after the whole thing went down, what – eight years ago?”

“Nine.”

“Yeah, nine – so she knows _you_ were assigned to Sean Diaz. And she wanted me to let you know – the leak had a lot of files, but _one_ of ‘em – it mentions, uh... there’s something up with his, uh... Sean’s brother.”

She wastes no time. “Daniel’s still under watch, I see him every two weeks. What do you mean, something’s up?”

He shakes his head. “No – no – not with him exactly. This leak, I – oh, fuck it, just read it. It’s hard to explain.”

“You brought it?” She’s a little annoyed that he hadn’t started with that. He pulls out a tightly-rolled envelope from his jacket. She extracts a single printed page – it’s a photograph of another document. Slightly tilted, off center. But she can read what’s on it. Takes a few minutes while he looks around, watching the straggling cars go by. A waitress approaches, but he waves her off.

She’s done reading. Puts it on the table and weighs it down with her coffee cup to keep the wind off it. She’s a little disoriented.

“Vesuvius project?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about that, Maria.”

“I... don’t know what that is. What’s this case about?”

“Some homicide – uh, old man... Jameson, something. I can’t recall. MacGyver? Jameson MacGyver? Don’t quote me, I think that’s wrong. I’ll check with my friend if you want. They found that in his apartment this week.”

“This week?” So it’s recent. Very recent. “When was the homicide?”

Ed shrugs. “Dunno. Didn’t ask.”

“And when did they find this, exactly?”

“Four days ago.”

“And who’s they?”

“Uh... Seattle PD, 16th division.”

“And this – ‘unauthorized inquiry’ – was into their database? When?”

“Four days ago.” He slaps his thighs with a solemn finality. “Yeah, pretty fast, I know. Somebody out there, _knows_ people.”

She reads it again. Daniel’s name is on it, next to the very same CIA report that she’d testified for. She knows the filing code. It’s the right one. She doesn’t like the use of the word ‘targets’. She doesn’t like that one of these targets is listed as dead.

“You’re thinking there’s been another leak.” She puts it together. “About Daniel. That’s why he’s on some list?”

Ed shrugs. “I’m in the muck, same as you. I’m just saying, why else would he be on anyone’s radar? The kid keeps a low profile, so you tell me.”

“What about these other names – Vaas ... ‘Melthus Shyde’? Nathan Prescott? Jane Clearwood? You know who these are?”

“Wouldn’t take much to find out.”

“Why do you think anyone would want to leak a homicide case? Was this – Jameson – was he a big deal, or–?”

But Ed just shakes his head again. “I couldn’t tell ya. Don’t think so, no. Whoever this third party is, they got their reasons – but they copied pretty much every file the department had on Jameson, including this little piece here. We don’t know which one they were looking for, mind you.”

“Yeah.”

She keeps re-reading it, if multiple reads would make it more coherent. It’s not helping.

“I wanted to, uh – bring this to your attention, as a – well, since I owe you, and all. And I don’t want those boys getting in any more trouble, especially that Daniel. Freaks me the fuck out.”

“It’d be hard for Daniel to get into trouble if he tried...” she reads as she speaks. “Not that he... ever tries.”

“You gonna talk to his brother?”

She looks up at him. “Should I?”

“I – I don’t know, it’s all really messy. If Daniel’s on some list, maybe Sean is too. And he’s in the slammer... easy to get people in there.”

She bites her lip. The probabilities of either brother ending up anywhere else than where they are, are very low. But this looks like some kind of hit list. Targets. One deceased. References to codes and file names. No... it’s not a hit list. It’s an investigation. And Daniel is not a matter to take lightly. It’s not beyond the realm of reason that someone out there could be interested in him – especially if there really was a CIA breach, if someone talked – if someone knows what Daniel is.

“I’ll think about it. And – do me another favor and send me your friend’s contact info?”

He looks a little stumped. “I, uh – my – this person requested that she stay anonymous–”

“That’s not happening, Ed. I need to talk about this Jameson case and the breach. You have my word it’ll stay between me and her. That not enough?”

He considers retorting, but it’s really not worth it. He’s already told her this much. He smiles. “Sure. You got it. I’ll forward it.”

She gets up, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “I have to get to the office. Just need the bill–” She’s trying to wave down a waiter, but they’re all conveniently out of sight.

“I’ll get the check,” Ed proposes. “Go on. Don’t slow down.”

She’s grateful. “Thanks, Ed.”

“You better keep me in the loop, Flores.”

“No promises.” With a shadow of a smile, she walks out of sight. Ed’s left alone at the table with an empty coffee mug, when the same waitress approaches.

“Um – sir, will you be paying for her?”

“Yeah. Lemme see the menu – actually, screw it. You got hash?” 

*

“Prescott, 44?”

Nathan walks up to the table. The line behind him is short, and edges closer. The low ceiling and dingy grey walls of the prison clinic aren’t helped by dense fluorescent lamps jutting out like rods up above. Nathan can see every bump, crack and scar on the woman’s face.

She hands him three paper cups, each containing a pill. He carefully tosses each one into his mouth before she hands him another cup of water to wash it down. Opens wide and sticks out his tongue for her to inspect. She looks closely – yup, they’re down.

“Good. Next – Delmont, 32?”

The COs here don’t care much for healthcare. The clinic is minimally staffed. Extra security for cabinets. Doctors come and go. Nathan walks past a guard while unearthing the pills he’d stuffed behind his molars with his tongue. They didn’t care enough to spot little things like an unusual bulge in his cheek. Who would? Not even the distributor back there.

He makes his way past the mess, the showers, up the steps and into the cell lobby. Stragglers remain in their cells but most people are out in the yard to get their morning stretches in. Today is no such day for him.

Stalks past doors held ajar, feet clanging on steel, until he gets to his own little hole. Hick isn’t here – thank fuck for that. They haven’t spoken in days. 

Checks over his shoulder. Pills come out of his mouth. Right by the books they go, in the corner, out of sight. He sits down with Gulliver’s Travels, now by his pillow, and waits. He considers finding a way to skip his shift at the laundry today. It’s unlikely – but maybe after this meeting, he can swing it. He’d have to wait and see.

Right on cue – like clockwork – the footsteps reach his door and a looming figure leans into the cell.

“Mornin’, Nate.”

“Hey, Terrence.”

The CO doesn’t wait for an invitation. Waltzes over to the reading desk and leans against it, his eyes grazing the surface. He spots the pills.

“So, no yard today?” Terrence’s voice is of deep curiosity, like an old friend’s.

“No.” Nathan isn’t feeling too chatty.

“Nnnno?” He’s reaching for the pills with one hand without looking. Fingers graze them.

“Well, it looks like you’re doing fine on your own up here.” He smiles at Nathan, who doesn’t smile back. Terrence grabs the pills and slips them into his pocket. His business is done, and Nathan waits for him to leave.

He does not. He crosses his arms and continues talking.

“So – you got any more visitors? Since the one I took you to see?”

Nathan shakes his head. He can’t think about her right now. Why is Terrence asking? Just fucking leave.

“Didn’t catch that, Nate.” Another smile.

“... No. No more visitors.”

“So – who was that, the lady?” Again with that tone of casual indifference. Nathan’s fingers twitch.

“Nobody.”

“What’s that?”

He locks eyes with Terrence. “I said it’s none of your business.”

Immediate fear – and regret – is palpable enough to quell his rage. But all of it is still there. Terrence unfolds his arms, smile gone. He leans off the desk, strolls to the door and closes it shut, cutting out the airy hustling buzz of the cells beyond.

Just them now.

Nathan is rooted to his spot. Ears red with fury. Terrence comes over to the bed and takes a seat next to him. Nathan doesn’t look up.

“Now, Nate. I know you’re goin’ through some shit. I mean, hell – being off your pills for – what – two days? That’s gotta be taking its toll.”

And Terrence leans closer, voice lowering. His hand comes around Nathan’s neck and starts rubbing gently. He’s frozen.

“But maybe you should think about your tone with me? Hmm?”

No answer. Nathan’s fighting hell to keep his hands to himself.

“You know, especially after all the favors I did for you... how I took care of you? How I’m doin’ you favors right now? Ring any bells, or nah?” The hand begins stroking his hair, running up the side of his face.

“Or maybe you need some one-on-one time again? I’m up for it. You owe me anyway.”

Nathan’s feet jerk forward as he shoots off the bed. “She – she was a... old – uh... someone from high school.” Says it without looking. He’s glaring at the wall. Glances at the door, the little glass window, some part of him begging that another CO would come by to investigate a closed door.

“Oh.” Terrence is still on the bed. “You told me you didn’t have friends.”

“She’s not my friend.”

“So why’s she comin’ to see you in jail, Pressy?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”

“Wouldn’t say!” He kicks off the bed too, making Nathan flinch. Comes back to leaning on the desk again. Between Nathan, and the door.

“So – what – she just stared at you and left? Spoke in fuckin’ Latin?”

“She...” Nathan considers it. Is it even worth telling? It was unreasonably cryptic, but it’s not for the likes of Terrence to know. Hell, he regrets telling Hick about it – the little that he did. Never again. He doesn’t know how sane Max even was that day. He’s still not even sure if it happened at all. But Terrence is here now, demanding the truth. Who the hell deserves the truth?

“She... ugh, okay – she – was my, uh... we hooked up. A few times. Not friends.”

Terrence gives him what feels like a minute-long stare before breaking his face into a screechy cackle, doubling over. Nathan considers breaking his skull while he’s wheezing. It would be easy.

“Hah! Oh – oh my – holy hell.” Wiping tears, he stands up. “ _You_ hooked up in high school? With _her?”_

“Yes.” Looks like he bought it. He’s grinning ear to ear.

“Damn boy, thought you were all about the shaft. Coulda fooled me.”

Nathan diverts his gaze, lest Terrence see any hint of his rage.

“Hell, though – didn’t think she’d be your type, Pressy.” He feigns a look of deep thought. “So what, she’s back for one last plow?” Laughs at his own shit again.

“No. She, uh – didn’t say why. I told you. I asked. She wouldn’t say.”

“Hah! Alright... I don’t buy it. But hey, you got me the pills so I’ll cut ya a break. Speaking of which...”

He glances over his shoulder at the glass window in the door. Still empty. Pulls out the pills and splays them in his palm.

“Diazepam... there’s the... risperidone... and the – yeah, all here.”

“So that makes six pills, counting yesterday.” Nathan tries to sound as stable as he can. “How long will that get me?”

Terrence shakes his head, lips pouting. “Probably five minutes.”

“Five fucking minutes?”

“Six pills, Nate. You’re not shoveling gold here. If you got bottles, we’d be talking.”

“I don’t have bottles.”

“Then you get five minutes.”

Nathan weighs his options. He could convince Terrence to return the pills and call off the whole thing. But he’s not so much against being off his medication – more so than he’d like to admit. It’s been a long time since he’s been this clear. But clarity was a temporary balm, one he knows well. It didn’t last then, and he knows it won’t last now. The prickling hot waves of fury he’d nearly forgotten are warming his fingertips, clouding his eyes. He’s forgetting how to sit still and shut up. 

“I’ll take it.”

“Good boy.” Terrence grins at him and turns to leave, strolling to the door to yank it open. For whatever reason, he decides against it. Turns around to face Nathan.

“You know I like you, Nathan. Right?”

He’s a little affronted. “Uh – what?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“I – nothing. Just asking.”

Terrence heaves a sigh, arms crossed, as he walks toward him. Nathan’s instinct is to take a step back. He fights it. Terrence is now up to his face, breathing on him.

“You know how it works in here. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Right, Pressy?”

Nathan doesn’t blink as he glares back. “Right.”

“So I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. You wanna meet the Valkyries? You wanna talk to Yinna? Not worth it.”

Nathan’s confused. And angry. That meeting is what the pills were for.

“That meeting is what the pills were for,” he hisses. “What are you saying?”

“Pills won’t mean shit in the next – five or six hours.” Terrence doesn’t look too jovial anymore. “Something big is about to go down today. And the Valkyries are making it happen. They’re not gonna waste time on you. No fucking chance.”

Nathan does step back now. Even more confused.

“Something big? Like what?”

Terrence doesn’t answer. “Forget your meeting. Forget about Vaas. Forget about Larry. Won’t matter. I’m telling you because I wanna keep you around for me. Don’t stick your hand where it’s gonna get bitten off, Pressy.” And he grins again. Nathan sees through it, surprisingly quickly.

“You don’t know what’s happening. You just know _something’s_ happening. Right?”

Something shifts in Terrence, a friendly face drowned by one Nathan’s more familiar with. He steps forward again, closing in on Nathan until he’s against the wall. Breathing’s heavier now. Nathan glances at the door – still nobody. Where the fuck is everyone? A closed door is a serious cause for concern.

Terrence grabs Nathan’s face by the cheeks, slamming him to the wall. “You know what, Nate... I gotta say... these past few days? Something’s going on with you. Something... weird.”

Nathan refuses to break his glare, but he knows what Terrence means. He knows when it began. He remembers her words that earmarked this sense of instability that only grew every passing day.

_I’m trying to fix this. I’m trying to fix it._

“I dunno if it’s cause you’re off your meds, or what – but... yeah...” Terrence tugs on Nathan’s lips with his thumb. Taste of tobacco.

“Something weird. You talk a lot more. I like it. I like you feisty.”

It would be easy. So easy, to smash his skull in. Nathan’s begging for a weaker conscience. The cement wall is right there.

“Just don’t get _too_ chatty. You. Always. Owe me. Remember that.” And he tightens his grip on Nathan before releasing him and stepping back, arms splayed out in a casual shrug.

“Just sayin’. Oh, and the pills – they’re for me. Gonna come in handy when all this blows over.”

Terrence is at the door when he stops again, and looks back. Nathan’s finally lost the will to keep up eye contact. It’s an appealing sight for Terrence. He grins and whistles.

“Hey – by the way – you know Vaas is lookin’ for you, right?”

He waits for a look of horror to come, but it doesn’t. Nathan just sits down on his bed, eyes on the floor. Boring.

The cell door swings open and is left open, the clanging and the chatter wafting in once more, muffling out the few final seconds of silence he had.

_Fix what?_

The sun is dim today, grey and weak. Nathan grips the side of his bed as he often did, looking down at the white sheets soaked in red, breathing shallow and eyes strained.

_Everything._

*

A loud his of steam lets the kitchen staff know the soup is ready. One of them takes it off the stove to make room for vegetables.

“I need those carrots in twenty, Sean!”

“On it.” Sean Diaz clangs down the massive pot of carrots to boil. Heat on high. No need to salt the water – what is this, a restaurant? Save the salt for the meat. He wipes water off his hands on his apron and goes over to the prep station. Toss the chicken in oil and seasoning.

He needs to be extra careful in the kitchen. He can’t see both ways. It’s more awkward than it sounds, when people are running around with hot liquids and knives. They must all announce if they’re behind you. Sean’s eyepatch is an unusually effective reminder – as there have been more than a few crashes. Even so, he’s stationary now, and the work is focused, precise; not scattered. How he prefers it. Lunch will be ready soon for the first batch of inmates.

The ceiling is low and the walls are clean. They reek of linoleum. Floor littered with bits of cabbage and spills of salt and sugar and dried stock. Plastic cups, plastic plates, plastic trays and plastic knives. Metal racks hold scores of jars and cans and bags of perishables, preserves and grains. He’s one of the few inmates trusted with everyone else’s food. It’s a job, and he thinks no more of it. It’ll be a while before he does anything else. He doesn’t think about that either. Sean places the pre-cut meat chunks in Ziploc bags, poised to be marinated in the prison’s signature salted oil. 

“DIAZ!”

He nearly drops a bag to the floor. Half the kitchen stops, a cacophony deadened. All eyes are at the kitchen entrance. Sean’s about as shocked as anyone else. It’s the warden.

“Come with me. Now!” The portly man jerks his head toward the hallway. Sean looks around for someone to take over. Nobody volunteers.

“Elliot. Take my chicken.”

“Bro, I gotta do–”

“Do both.”

The meat falls to the chopping board with a resolute thwack and Sean strips off his gloves on the way across the kitchen, tossing them in a bin. The warden waddles off to the side, urging Sean to follow with a disgruntled wave. There’s a CO with him, tagging along.

He follows the men down the hall and up a flight of stairs inmates aren’t allowed on. Sean doesn’t question it. They go up two floors, until the hum of activity is barely audible. The warden parks himself in the dingy stairwell and turns to face Sean, glancing at the CO who leans against the wall, watching him with arms crossed.

“You know a lot of people in high places, I see.”

Sean doesn’t know what to make of this, so he says nothing. The warden pulls out a cell phone and begins poking it with a fat finger, mumbling as he does so.

“Being a go-between... for some whore... is not my job description. You understand that, Diaz?”

“Not at all.”

“What was that?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Watch your fuckin’ tone.” The CO comes off the wall to intimidate. Sean side-eyes him.

“I am.”

“Maria Flores called me,” the warden butts in, a little nervous. “Of the FBI. Sound familiar, Diaz?”

“Yes.” Sean knows that was rhetorical, but he answers anyway. He’s also particularly baffled by the news.

“She called me, _demanding_ that I let you speak to her.”

“Why didn’t she just use the prison line?” Sean voices an obvious question. The warden does not answer. Hands him the phone.

“It’s ringing. Keep it short. You get five minutes.”

He brings it up to his ear, bemused. Not entirely thrown off, but mildly surprised nonetheless. This is unexpected.

“Hello?” A familiar voice.

“Maria.”

“Sean! Good timing. Are you alone?”

“Not at all.” He makes it sound like a pleasantry. The two pairs of eyes are burning into his skull.

“Shit – okay, fine, just – don’t let on. I have something – potentially serious. About Daniel.”

Sean’s grip on the phone tightens and he rubs his forearm – a distinct tell. “Okay.”

“An old friend of mine spoke to me this morning. Daniel’s name is on some... kind of... list of names. A list they found on a homicide scene in Seattle. Can you make anything of that?”

The question comes too fast; he’s silent, processing this. Struggling to keep his face impassive.

“Uh... I – I, no. No, can’t say.”

“I figured as much. This list makes no sense to me right now. I’m heading up to Seattle for a few days. I’ll also come to Oregon soon once I sort this out. I’ll see you. I’m checking out the homicide once I get up there.”

Sean says nothing. None of this makes sense, but he knows Maria enough to recognize a tone of unease.

“Okay.”

“This list is very short, and it doesn’t look like anything... dangerous. Okay? Daniel’s probably not in danger. It’s probably nothing. But if it isn’t – on the off chance – I need to keep you in the loop. That’s why I called like this. I don’t trust those collect calls, too many ears these days. And your warden owes me a debt.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be in touch. Until then, just – stay safe. Keep a look out for yourself. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“One more question, Sean. Just say yes or no. Do you know – or have you heard of an inmate there named Nathan Prescott? And... someone named Vaas Shyde?”

The only way this call could’ve gotten more bizarre. Sean clears a dry throat. “Ye – yeah. Yes.” He wants to ask what Prescott and Vaas have to do with Daniel. He wants to ask if she’ll protect him – or at least warn him. But he can’t. Not with the warden and his dog watching him like hawks.

Some more silence. He can hear a keyboard clattering away. “Alright. Thank you, Sean. Again, stay alert and keep an eye out. I don’t want anything happening to you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The rest of his shift goes by in a vaguely grey-blue haze, voices distant and boiling waters unfocused as he cooks. The warden’s reluctance to let him speak any longer didn’t concern him. He’d heard everything he needed to. Sean turned and passed people like a machine, arms and legs of their own will, mind elsewhere – trying to keep it all together, to hold back any ideas. He knows he can take on the world. Or at least he tells himself so. But what is he to do, if his world is compromised?

_Keep an eye out._

Vaas brought him up this morning. Maria brought him up later the same day. What do they both know about Nathan Prescott?

Sean Diaz washes his hands in silent fury as the bell rings to end his shift, and inmates swarm for lunch. Today, at least, would be different. As he hangs his apron and walks down the hall with his coworkers, eye meeting nobody’s, he gets the unusual feeling that today might be a little more different than he’s planning. A little more unpredictable than he – or anyone – is prepared for. But that’s just nerves talking. Quell them. There’s work to be done.

*

Nathan sits still on his bed, hick on the chair across, as they wait for the post-lunch count. In silence. Hick’s tapping his foot, quick little glances at his cellmate.

“Eyo, ya know, Vaas is lookin’ for ya, right Nops? Just a heads up, ya know.”

 _Thanks for nothing, fuckface._ Nathan groans, biting it down. It hasn’t been this bad in years. No eye contact. Hick, for better or worse, doesn’t take the hint.

“Ye should prolly go talk to ‘em. Just sayin’.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Nathan growls at the ground. Hick does an uncomfortable shift in his chair and glances at the door, waiting for count to be over.

A face hovers past their door, scowling through the window. They’ve been counted. Now to sit still and wait for the rest to be over. This, beyond anything, is torturous.

“So, uh...” Hick can’t really handle the silence. He knows the tension in the air. He wants to break it, but he’s not certain it’s possible. He assumes, therefore, that the elephant in the room is a good idea. What could go wrong?

“So, like – hey, uh – you all fucked up about what happen’ with Vaas the other day?”

Nathan hisses through his nose.

“Look, I don’t – like – I’m not tryna stab you in the back or anythin’, Nops, it’s just – with Vaas –”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yeah, okay. Yeah, no – I’ll shut up...”

Acknowledging betrayal meant first facing the fact that he trusted Hick. Nathan doesn’t know how to go about that – at this point, it’s a strange beast. Not entirely unfamiliar. Those days are long behind him. But here, today, for the first time in perhaps his whole life – he’s about to make a decision of his own, one that could dig him into a hole. Or set him free. Or neither. Who can tell the future?

Three short bursts of an alarm siren signals count to be over. The doors click open and Nathan shoots off his bed, averting his eyes before Hick can say a word, and walks out. He knows where to go. Makes his way down the metal stairs, across the cell lobby and into the hallway leading to the mess. The last round of lunch is about to start, and people are making their way down. He’s already had lunch – but he doubts any CO patrolling would notice. Even if they do, he has backup. 

No need to sit down. The patrolling guards catch his eye – and do nothing. Nathan knows Terrence probably warned them. He’s willing to wager they know his plan. In which case, it’s best to keep a distance.

There, at the end of the hall, two large tables put together – where the Valkyries sit. Terrence’s intel hasn’t failed; the table is right, and the group isn’t inconspicuous. Large, wide bodies; a vivid cluster of tattoos peeking through sleeves and collars, promising denser pastures beneath their garbs. Nathan walks up to them, untethered and terrified, his feet not quite hitting their mark as he tries to look casual. Only here does he realize the flaw in his plan – which one’s the leader? Which one’s Yinna? He’s never actually seen the man – or known him by name, anyway. A surprisingly low profile, considering...

They’re all staring up at him, meals paused. He’s half the size of any given person here, and there are at least... twelve. Ten or twelve. Maybe more.

Even a “the fuck you want?” would’ve made this easier. Their unforgiving silence makes it hard to speak. Even so, he does. What could he possibly stand to lose?

“I need to talk to Yinna.”

*

“Hey, Diaz. How was lunch?”

“Good.”

Sean’s standing in a line, walls narrow and lamps above a-flicker, when someone behind him engages in some very unwelcome conversation. Couldn’t have picked a worse time. Sean has a lot on his mind.

“Yeah, good? You boys call that good? That shit ain’t chicken!” Chuckling from him and a few others.

“Hey, hey, Diaz – why don’t you – like – put some tabasco on that shit? Or like – some – ooh, some garlic powder n’ shit? Be pretty bomb. I used to get this garlic salt rub for my steaks, it – would – _kill._ At the cookouts. Let me tell ya. Some lemon on that shit? You get me, Diaz?”

“Yup.” The booths are still occupied. No one else before him. He looks to the officer by the door – a glance, not much more. A request. A shift in his feet, lips pursed, tense. _Can someone hurry up? It’s urgent._

The man seems to get the gist. And he likes Sean. A great many do. He strolls over to an inmate lounging on his chair, phone receiver in hand, and from what Sean can hear, he’s engaged in the cyclical tragedy of “no, _you_ hang up” with no end in sight; big toothy grin. The officer taps him on the shoulder. A few muffled words later, the phone is back on its receiver. The inmate glares at Sean as he walks out, who doesn’t even notice. The officer walks back to his post without looking at him, to avoid apparent favoritism. Sean appreciates it. He walks up and places his ID on the desk next to the guard. After a quick check, the guard pulls up a folder from beneath the desk and rifles through it until he comes up on his name – a list of numbers. Authorized people he can call. It’s not long. Sean takes it and heads down to one of five phone booths.

Takes a seat, dials a number. He doesn’t need to check the list. Eyes on him. Low whispering on either side of him; everyone’s reaching out today. Is something wrong? The phone center isn’t this crowded, not at this time of day...

It’s ringing. Sean bites his lip. It’s been a while since they’d last spoken.

It’s ringing some more. That’s okay. He’s a busy man.

Ringing, still.

And a few more rings.

The line dies out to a shrill beep. _“The person you’re calling is unavailable. Please try again later.”_

Maybe in any other circumstance, this might’ve been reasonable. But it’s not. Sean feels his knee shaking and grips it to stop. Daniel would never refuse to answer his call. He’d never leave his phone unattended.

But hey, first time for everything, right? Maybe he’s really busy with something. Anything. He might call you back any minute.

_Keep an eye out._

No. Maria’s not letting him come to those rationales. He puts the phone down and picks it up again to dial a different number, bracing for the yelling.

“Ey – ey- EY! He’s doin’ two calls!”

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit!”

“You get ONE, Diaz!”

“There’s a line here!”

The same officer taps him on the shoulder. “One phone call, Sean. Got others waiting. You can wait for a collect, in the waiting room.”

“Please – I – it’s an emergency, it’s my brother, he’s not–”

“Diaz, get the _fuck out of there!”_

 _“HEY!”_ the officer shouts back. “Stay in line, _watch_ your tone!”

Sean’s struggling to keep his voice level. “Please, just five minutes, I just need five – here, look, that one’s done, he just got done–” He glares at the person next in line. “That one’s free. Go. Go now.”

“Shut up, shitstain.” The man scowls at him, walking by.

“You don’t get two calls when there’s a line.” The officer is adamant. “Don’t make this hard now.”

“Please, I – it’s my brother, he’s not picking up. Okay? I just need to call our grandparents to make sure he’s alright. That’s it. That’s all I’ll do. Won’t take any time. Please. Just this once. Just once.”

“No exceptions. Let’s move. Come on.”

The officer, and the eyes of the line, are too many. Sean considers putting up some sort of fight – the idea is out before it’s even formulated. You can’t make phone calls in solitary, now, can you? No, there’s no winning here. The CO already slipped up and threw him a bone earlier; his pity well is bone-dry. Sean can tell. He puts the receiver down, exchanges the numbers for his card and heads out, averting his eye from his sour fellows as they spit their slurs at him. No exceptions – that’s true, when it’s convenient.

This is inconvenient.

He makes his way through narrow concrete halls until he’s at the cell lobby. Doors are open and there’s a general air of chatter. He considers going up to his cell. Pretend all this is a false alarm. He very well could. It’d be easy.

Nothing about today seems easy. He feels it too – like everyone else, Sean knows something is awry. It’s the most incredible curiosity, he feels; he can never really put his finger on it. What kind of askew imbalance is this, that he can’t even begin to discern? It’s telling. Maria’s call wasn’t the only thing that set this day apart. It’s been mounting, for days and weeks, like a shrill scream growing louder, a siren in the mists beyond these dense walls that creeps through the gravel and poisons the iron bars keeping them in. A corrosion.

_Keep an eye out._

Prescott. He’s not a matter to be ignored – Sean has no idea why. He doesn’t know if he’s even remotely correct. But why would Maria bring him up? In the same call about Daniel? Why does Vaas want Prescott?

“Eyes up, Diaz.”

He’d nearly walked into someone. The man turns and chuckles.

“Oh – sorry. _Eye_ up.”

It’s another CO he knows well. Sean seems to know the question before he’d even thought of asking it.

“Hey, Terrence. Can you tell me where Vaas is?”

Terrence, who’d been lounging against a steel beam, pushes off to square up his shoulders and intimidate Sean. It’s not likely to work.

“Why the fuck are you looking for Vaas, Diaz? Nobody looks for Vaas. He talks to you. Got it?”

Sean expected as much. He’s had a few seconds to gather his thoughts, anyway.

“Yeah – got it.”

There are faster ways – albeit costly – to get to Vaas. Sean’s not sure why he’d want to. Something is gnawing at him. That meeting in the yard, that little exchange. He wants Vaas, and he wants Nathan. Who to find first?

He’s walking to the mess hall. He knows where they sit, and when. It’s been cyclical enough to warrant memorization. Most people know – but nobody talks. Not unless they’ve paid their way in – or been invited. But they’re the ones you go to. For anything – to track someone down. To break out. To break in. To get a free phone call when nobody’s looking. They control the vines of this place, like strings on a vast, putrid instrument. Right now, they seem like a good bet.

“Halt.” Another officer stops him at the mess. “You already ate.”

“Valkyries wanted to see me.” Sean’s face is impassive. “They said you’d let me through.”

The man looks most confused. This is new. He’s not sure what protocol to follow – not that there ever was any, when it came to the Valkyries. Not written down, anyway.

He looks away from Sean and steps aside. Distracts himself with something down the hall. Sean takes the hint and walks past him, striding down the tables to the end of the hall, where he knows they sit. Other officers see him making his way there. It’s not a common sight to see an inmate who’s not supposed to be in the mess, make a beeline for that particular table. But it does happen. They assume it’s routine. Although some of them may be wondering, and rightfully so, why two different people are meeting the Valkyries today. 

Sean approaches the table and sees eyes fly up. He’s tense – which request is most reasonable? Find Vaas? Find Prescott? Phone call. Yes, that works – he’d ask for them to arrange a phone call for him – maybe a few – enough to find out where Daniel is. Keep him safe. He won’t take no for an answer. He’ll pay whatever debt they put on him. He’s fine with that.

But as he comes to the table, and makes himself known, and all its occupants are in view, someone sitting at the end grabs his eye, and shakes him more than he expected.

Nathan Prescott meets his startled gaze. He’s always wondered about Diaz’s eyepatch.

*

_Here’s her number. Keep it quiet_

_Name is Kurvi Firoza. Likes to go by her last name_

Maria makes a quick note of the number from Ed’s fresh email, leaning back in her chair and feeling it creak. Her cabin is quiet. A lot of polished chrome and glass, courtesy of building plans – but her choice of furniture remains a bit tacky. The wide, varnished desk is out of place beneath the stupendous paper-thin widescreen she’s reading off of.

Checks her door. It’s transparent – but people usually don’t look in, unless they’re coming in. They won’t, if they see her on the phone. She dials.

“Hello?”

A woman’s curt voice picks up almost immediately. Jesus – her phone’s never too far, is it?

“Kurvi Firoza?” Maria doesn’t waste time either.

“Yes? Who’s this?”

“This is Maria Flores. We both know Edward Mackey. I got your contact from him today.”

A couple of seconds to process. “Maria... Flores?”

“FBI. I was in charge of the Diaz case nine years ago. You talked about the same case with Ed.”

“... I wanted to remain–”

“Anonymous, I know, I apologize – I strong-armed Ed, really. But this is – potentially – very serious. I’d like to talk to you about this... Jameson? I believe? I didn’t catch his last name – his homicide. And this Vesuvius project list that Ed passed on. And also...” She checks her little notepad she’d been scribbling on before the call. “Also, about your alleged data breach.”

“I – I can transfer you to Sergeant Maoro, you can make a request through him and –”

“Listen, please – Firoza? Can I call you that?”

“Yes.”

“The Diaz case is ongoing in many respects. It’s very confidential, and the less it’s brought up in conversation, the better.”

Firoza interrupts. “I’m aware..”

“Yes – Ed told me about your history. It’s confidential, you understand. And it’s also... very personal. To me. Now, if anything has to be done – any concrete steps – I’ll take them. But until that’s a certainty, I really want to keep this as a simple exchange.”

Firoza lowers her voice. “You want me to talk about case files, off-the-books? That’s a breach of my contract.”

“You’re worried about being liable? I’ll keep it quiet if you will – and all I’m asking for is a consult. In any case – we wouldn’t be doing so over the phone. I’ll be coming up to Seattle shortly. With your permission, I’d like to meet you.”

Firoza’s quiet again, just for a bit. “Do _you_ know anything about Vesuvius? What it could mean? And what about these other names?”

“I think it’s best if we talk in person about that. But something else I’d like to ask about – only for a... lack of time... is this data breach. You still don’t know where it came from?”

“We... have some idea. Now.”

“But nothing concrete? Any leads on who might want police records of the Jameson case?”

“I can’t really talk about that. But it’s... pretty dry right now.”

“Okay... I could make a recommendation about that. Do you know anyone in the 14th division?”

Firoza seems startled. “Here in Seattle? The sergeant does. Why?”

“Deputy Aaklya Carne there is a friend of mine.” Maria scrawls “AAKLYA” on her notepad as she talks. A reminder to herself. “Their cybersecurity division is pretty well-staffed. I can let her know about your situation. You might make a lot more progress if you collaborate with the 14th on your breach investigation. You’d have to approve this with your boss, of course. And only if you’re okay with it.”

“I – no, yeah, that sounds... very... what was her name, again?”

“Aaklya Carne. A-a-k-l-y-a... yes... Carne, C-a-r-n-e. I’ll let her know to give you a call. Is that alright?”

“That... sounds good.”

“Thanks, Firoza. I’ll let you know when I’m in the city. Probably tomorrow.”

*

“Talk.”

Sean rips his stare off Nathan to meet the beady eyes of the closest one to him on the table. He knows he’s here uninvited. But they’re surprisingly patient.

“I – I, uh...” Seeing Nathan really threw him off. The man has been on his mind all day. Ever since this morning. But Nathan’s not his concern. Daniel is. Not Nathan, and not Vaas. Unless they matter. Unless they’re tied.

“You’re Sean Diaz.” Someone else speaks up. Just as large as the rest of the Valkyries, but with an uncharacteristic gentle voice. “Mystery man. Nobody knows why he’s in here.”

“I’m sure we can put it together,” someone else chimes in, glaring.

“You got something to say, Sean Diaz?”

“I – I... need a – a favor.” Sean goes with his gut. Just test the waters. What are they going to do – beat him up in the dining hall? Unlikely. Of course, there are far worse fates in prison. He pushes that thought to the side for now. Daniel.

“A favor.” The gentle-faced beast looks truly amused. “You. Want a favor. From us.”

“I’ll pay you whatever it takes. As long as it takes. But I need – unrestricted access to a phone.” He’d need to call his grandparents. Call Daniel’s friends. Call Maria back. Make sense of it all. Get a good hold on this. As many calls as he needs to, to keep ahead of it. This one-at-a-time bullshit at the phone booths won’t do. Sean bites down the gnawing fear of what he’s getting himself into. A debt with the Valkyries is not to be taken lightly. But then again, he’s not going anywhere for a while. So long as Daniel is safe. So long as he can confirm.

_And if he’s not?_

One crisis at a time. Sean knows, if it comes to that, Daniel can protect himself. It’s everyone else he’s worried about. What they’ll do – and more crucially, what they’ll think.

He braces for the refusal, so he can fight on; for the debt to crash on his shoulders, so he can solemnly sign away his soul.

“Sure thing.”

Underwhelmed. He blinks, staring at the giants. “What?”

“You got it.” The sleepy-eyed man smiles, going back to his tray, poking at it sadly with a fork. “Phone access? No worries, Diaz. You got it.”

“What do I pay?”

They actually laugh. All of them – except Prescott, who looks like a fish out of water at the table.

“It’s on the house.”

He doesn’t believe it for a second. They’re playing with him. But he can’t call them out – what if they’re not? They might revoke it. He needs it too much. Let’s just let it play out for a little bit, he thinks.

“When can I get it?” Pushing his luck.

“We’ll let you know.” The man closer to him, much more gruff, has been giving him the stink-eye this whole time. “Anything else?”

“Uh – no. No, that’s all.” He starts stepping away, shooting Nathan another quick glance. He’s no longer welcome. But he’s not done with Prescott.

Nathan watches Diaz leave earshot. Looks back at the man across him.

“So as I was saying–”

“Hold on.” The man shovels mealy chicken onto his toast. Takes a big bite and washes it down with bottled water. His speech is matted with food, cheeks heavy.

“Sho – you fink you gen shake Vaaf if vee hake out Warry?” Gulps.

Nathan nods. “That’s my problem. I don’t need help for that. I just need him alone. Larry’s the problem. I can’t take him.”

“You’re perceptive.” The man wipes his mouth with a folded tissue. “So – hypothetically – let’s say we take care of our end. How would you do it? I’m curious.”

Nathan takes a deep breath, lowering his voice and head even further, looking around. “Like I said – that’s my problem.”

More laughter. Nathan can’t imagine why.

“Well...” The man smiles, grinning, actually. Ear to ear. “I’ll have to run it by Yinna first, see what he thinks... we’ll let you know.”

“When?” Nathan’s a bit inspired by Diaz’s brazen approach. He wouldn’t admit it, of course.

“Just in ‘bout a few,” someone else chimes in, and they all break into laughter again. Nathan is perplexed. What’s the joke here?

“You really think you’ll pull this off, hmm?” He’s now loading the last bit of toast with more chicken. Making Nathan a bit hungry. Something about his tone is off-putting; not even disbelief, but the kind of tone parents use to talk to toddlers.

“Yes.” Curt, short – but wary. Eyes averted.

“I like that.” The man looks like he’s biting down even more laughter. “Run along.”

“Wha-when do we do this?”

“We’ll let you know.”

The same response they gave Diaz? He doesn’t like this. But maybe that’s how the Valkyries operate. Nathan feels he’s outstayed his welcome. Gets up and walks back down the mess, tossing back a glance to catch the glares of everyone on his side of the table.

It’s a bit incredible he walked out of that alive. Now that he’s done, he breathes easier. But the worst is yet to come. Nathan resigned himself to this the day Vaas gave him his ultimatum. There’s no way out, no going back – no chance of parole, no release. No freedom – but this, at least, could restore some of what he’d lost. No, it’s not just about a book. Nathan can’t bring himself to explain, even to the Valkyries – not that they’d asked – the true extend of why he wants to do this. But do so, he will. Nothing else bears weight.

“Prescott.”

He halts and checks over his shoulder. Diaz. He matches Nathan’s speed without eye contact and they both keep moving. They’re walking together back to the cell lobby. Inconspicuous.

“What?”

“Why is Vaas looking for you?”

A weight drops down and through his feet. How many people know?

“None of your business, Diaz.”

“It’s my business.”

They’re going through the game room now. Bigger crowd here. People sitting at tables, playing checkers and chess and backgammon and blackjack. People huddled around a TV. A ping pong table with no bats, so they’re using their hands – a pretty sad display, but an honest effort nonetheless. Light music plays from a corner and the cream-washed walls gleam against glaring tubes hanging above. Nathan has no intention of staying here, but Sean does. They pass an empty table for two.

“Sit down, Prescott.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Sean grabs him by the arm, making him jerk to a halt. Nathan whips around, ready to hit back – except he’s not. He has to stay out of trouble today. Nothing can fuck this up. Beyond that, Diaz doesn’t look like he wants to fight, either. He lets go of his arm.

“Your name came up in a phone call I had today.” Sean keeps his voice low. “A call about my brother. On the outside. He’s in trouble.”

Nathan scowls. “Like I give a fuck. Why did _my_ name come up? Who were you talking to?”

“Lower. Your. Voice.” Sean growls, glancing to the nearest tables. “And sit down. Won’t take long.”

Stay out of trouble, is the idea. Diaz won’t stop following him, from the look of it. Might actually go all the way to his cell. And the guards seem a little off today – they might not intervene, even if it looks suspicious. Best to get this out of the way, then. And Nathan’s curious about this call – who on earth could possibly be talking about him?

He glares at Sean and takes a seat on the cold metal chair, suppressing an audible exhale as he comes to the only person out there who could, in fact, be talking about him. She’d come to meet him nearly a week ago. The only person who seemed interested in him at all. She’s an undeniable candidate. He scans Diaz as he, too, sits down, checking the perimeter for eavesdroppers. Could Max have done this? Why?

“Your name. And – and Vaas. They both came up.” Sean doesn’t lean in, but speaks quietly. Making Nathan lean in.

“Who’re you talking to?”

“Not your concern.”

Nathan wants him to know he’s not an idiot. “Yeah? Max Caulfield is not my concern? How’s she _your_ concern, Diaz?”

Sean blinks, confused. “Max – what?”

“Don’t act fuckin’ stupid. I know you’re talking to her.”

“I – don’t know who that is. Shut up and listen to me.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do. _You_ listen to me. I don’t know what Max put you up to, but I’m not running any errands, or doing _any favors_ for that skank, and _you_ can’t make me! Got it?”

Sean takes a breath. Not many could try his patience with such precision. “I spoke to the FBI agent who handled my case. She called me asking about you and Vaas.”

Nathan comes to realize just how far his own foot was down his mouth. But it’s too late to break character, isn’t it?

“Bullshit. FBI doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“You sure?” Sean does lean in now, hands clasped on the table. “She asked about you personally. You and Vaas.”

A few seconds, he takes. “What did she ask about?”

Sean contemplates the ramifications. Telling Nathan about the list could have any number of outcomes – none of which are ideal. But not telling him – and not pushing this forward – leaves everyone in the dark. Sean can’t do anything to help Daniel from in here. But he can try this.

“Your name. And Vaas. _And my brother’s name._ Are all on some – list. They found in a crime scene, or something.”

“What? The fuck are you – what ‘crime scene’? Where?”

“You’re going to tell me what you have to do with my brother.” Sean’s voice gets lower still, heavier, with his single eye boring into Nathan’s. “And what Vaas has to do with my brother.”

“I don’t fucking know your brother, Diaz!” Nathan whisper-screams his frustration, hands jerking. Over his shoulder, Sean spots Terrence leaning against a door frame, watching them.

“That doesn’t explain the list.”

“I don’t know your brother, and I _don’t know about this fucking list._ If you’re making shit up to fuck with me –”

A flicker of annoyance now. “I’m not – what is _wrong_ with you? I’m trying to work with you, here, Prescott. My brother’s not picking up his phone. If he’s on some list, and you are too, maybe you know whose list it is.”

Nathan wants to bark back again. But the thought scares him enough to reconsider. Diaz doesn’t sound like a liar. A possible sliver of honesty – something he’s been wholly unfamiliar with lately. Not that he intends on showing it. But even if he does – he really doesn’t know.

“You got anyone on the outside who might... target you for anything? This Max Caulfield, is she-?”

It’s an honest question. Tentatively, Nathan answers honestly. He shakes his head. And then he asks his own question.

“Does your brother?”

“No.” His answer is quicker, more firm. But unlike Nathan, he’s not actually sure of it. He hasn’t seen Daniel in nine years. Yes, they talk – he visits – but what Daniel gets up to, beyond that... who he mixes with, what he does – it’s all in the dark. Sean says what he wants to believe is true.

“Then – what? Ask your ‘FBI friend’ what this fucking list is about.”

“Not that simple. I might see her soon, I’ll ask then. But I don’t know when that is.”

“So the fuck do we do?”

They’re both leaning in over the table, voices low. They glance around. Sean shoots another look at Terrence, who hasn’t moved.

“Maybe... Vaas... might know.” Sean probes the waters to see if Nathan’s okay with the idea. Doesn’t seem so. He pulls away, sitting up straight. Sean’s not deterred. He presses on.

“I know you know Vaas. Just – get me in a room with him. I can’t find him. I’ll talk. But you can help me find him. These guards don’t tell me shit.”

Nathan suspects Diaz might know his plan – but unless Terrence told him, that’s impossible. He considers Terrence may have told him. It’s possible. Not rational – but possible. But then why would Diaz make this up? Why not just come out and say what he wants?

He is. Nathan can tell, albeit with insurmountable doubt, that the man might be speaking truth. He really does want to talk to Vaas. And he really doesn’t know what Nathan is about to do.

Should he?

No – he wants to _talk_ to Vaas. Nathan wants something different. A revelation of this could lead to his plans being incumbered. A lie will do, for now.

“Sure. Yeah. I can find Vaas. What’s your house?”

“331.”

“I’ll come by. Give me an hour.”

Sean’s not sure whether to trust him – but at this point, he’s running out of options. He’s set some wheels in motion, in any case. An hour would be enough time to go down and try to make another call. Maybe two. His grandparents’ numbers – and Maria’s – are on his call list. He’s not too keen on calling Maria. Discussing that over a prison call will lead to trouble. But he can ask about Daniel. Yes – that, he can do.

Nathan’s already left the room. Sean follows suit – Terrence is looming over the door. If he has something to say, he can say it. And he does. Sean’s not two steps out when he’s called.

“Diaz, my boy.”

Another deep sigh as he turns. “Hi, Terrence.”

That big, dumb smile graces Terrence’s gaunt face. “Didn’t know you and Nate were best buds.”

“Oh yeah, we’re – you know, real close. Best o’ chums. Everyone knows that.” He’s hoping the man will pick up on his tone. Terrence chuckles and pushes off the wall he’s leaning on, arms still crossed.

“So since you’re so close and all – Diaz – you must know why Nate’s talking to the Valkyries. Right?”

“Oh, yeah. Completely.”

“Hmm, really?” Terrence steps closer while Sean stands his ground. They’re equally tall. “So what’s it about?”

“Oh... well, you know – it’s not really for me to talk about. It’s private.”

“Don’t fuck with me, spic. I need straight answers. You know, or you don’t know?”

Sean decides not to answer. A silent stare would do. Let’s see how pissed off he gets.

“Yeah. So you don’t know. That’s what I fuckin’ thought.” Terrence looks around – the hallway’s not empty. People are coming and going. He grabs Sean by the arm and pulls him back into the mess, down the side and into the kitchen, where he knows it’s empty by now – except the dishwashers at the back. This feels familiar.

“You’re gonna listen, and you’re gonna follow orders. Got it?”

Again, no answer. Sean likes watching him get redder.

“Motherfucker – Nate wants to kill Vaas. That news to you, asshole?” 

It most certainly is. Sean doesn’t let it show. But it confirms he can’t trust Nathan with the plan. Something else has to be done – if at all. He says nothing, twisting Terrence further.

“He’s gonna do it – today. Now I need you, to take his stupid ass down to the hole and lock him in.”

Sean decides enough is enough. “You – want me to... lock him in solitary. Me, an inmate.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Not your damn business.”

“If I’m doing the job, it’s my business.”

Terrence knows the game here – he’s not used to playing it, as most people comply quickly. But Sean stands his ground, the singular gaze unfathomably rigid. He eases his posture; don’t look desperate. Leans against the wall again, watching Sean closely.

“Heard you got in a spat today by the phones. You tried to make – what – multiple calls? With a line on your ass?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So I’m thinkin’ you should learn to play your cards better. When’s the best time to ask for a favor, Diaz?”

Ah, that’s where this is going. It’s honestly not an entirely bad idea – seeing as how vague the Valkyries were. Sean doesn’t trust them. And now, he certainly doesn’t trust Nathan. Pushing on to track down Nathan could prevent him from doing anything stupid – like killing the only potential lead on Maria’s list that Sean has access to. Then again – if Terrence can give him what he wants... he could talk to Maria again.

“You can get me a phone call, is what you’re saying.” The obvious rebuttal being that Sean’s not interested in the prison phone lines – those are recorded. He wants no ears this time, when he talks to Maria.

“I can get you as many as you want.” Terrence tilts his head with a little grin, slightly crazed. “Private cell phone access. There’s a drawer in the main office full of burner phones we pull off the tweaks that come in here. And I can get you one that works.”

“Those _don’t_ work.”

Terrence chuckles, heaving a sigh. “You want the call or not? Cause plenty other skunks in this joint who’ll bend over easier.”

It’s a gamble for certain – he’s usually not too worried for his own skin. But doing something like this could step on a few too many tails – especially if he does it wrong.

“Why’re you asking me? Why not just put him in the hole yourself?”

“Because then I gotta write him up, and I gotta put down why, and I don’t wanna put down why. It’s private, Diaz, you get me?”

“Sure. And you’re gonna tell me what’s so private.”

Terrence swings up on his feet and grabs Sean by the throat, slamming him on the opposite wall. Nobody here to see.

“Watch your fuckin’ tone, you little shit. I’ll double your time left in here, you hear me, Diaz?”

“You can either tell me...” Sean rasps through the grip. “... Or I can tell the warden you like – Prescott _– ghhgh –_ a bit too much.”

Terrence lets go, leaving Sean to cough it out. Forces a laugh. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Sean stands up straight again, clearing his throat. “You think nobody knows? You’re a fucking moron, Terrence. We can turn a blind eye as long as we want – but it only takes one of us to put you in deep shit.”

Sean comes up closer to him. Terrence doesn’t easily back down either.

“And now you want him in a room. All by himself. Why? All to yourself, is that it? I wonder what the rights watch committees at the ABA would make of that.”

“You _motherfucking–”_

“I’m not saying I’ll do it.” Sean cuts him off. “I’m saying I can. And I will. Unless you talk to me straight about what’s going on.”

It’s not in Terrence to have to switch strategies this quickly. But he’s no stranger to it either. He changes from burnt rage to a mellow face of polite dissent, shaking his head.

“It’s – not like that. Nate’s like a – a brother to me. You know what that’s about, right?”

Sean’s fingers twitch.

“But something’s about to go down today and he _cannot_ be around Vaas. Or anyone. I wanna protect him, you get me?”

“What’s going down?” Sean’s intrigued now, despite the obvious stink of bullshit.

Terrence considers making something up – but at this point, it really wouldn’t matter. Nobody would believe Sean if he told them. And the man looks like he’d honor an agreement. Terrence checks both sides of the hall before continuing.

“There’s gonna be a breakout. Today. Soon. The Valkyries – they’re gonna start a riot. Yinna’s getting paid by someone on the outside to make it happen. Some people of interest in here they want out. So those favors you and Nate went up askin’ about? Not gonna fucking happen.”

Sean’s reeling a bit. This is more than he bargained for.

“Are you shitting me?”

“Ain’t supposed to warn nobody. But you better keep your mouth shut and do the job. You do it – and stay outta the riot – and I’ll get you your phone. And you can keep that.”

Potentially unlimited, unrecorded phone calls. That’s a bit too good to be true, isn’t it? But this riot story sounds unreasonably ridiculous.

“I haven’t heard _anything_ about a breakout–”

“Why the fuck would you? You stupid, Diaz? It’s _classified shit!”_

“And you want... to protect... Nathan.” Every word laden with doubt.

“Yeah. He’s like a brother to me, you know?”

“You said that already.”

“I want him to stay out of this, and he’s too stupid. He’ll get himself fuckin’ killed when shit hits the fan. But he’ll be safe in there. Can’t guarantee the cell blocks are gonna be safe spots either.”

Clearly a devious – but inevitably futile – pot of lies. But maybe not all of them. How Terrence feels about Nathan is obvious – but these riots? It’s not beyond the Valkyries... at least as far as Sean knows their reputation. On the off chance it’s true, it might spoil any potential leads on Daniel. Nathan and Vaas are both at stake, if riots do break out. And Sean has the distinct feeling Vaas would handle himself far better than Prescott.

“Alright. Keys?”

Terrence is a bit taken aback by the sudden agreement. “Keys to what?”

“The solitary cell?”

“Yeah – yeah, right.”

A single, long key is wrenched out of a jangly ring. Sean slips it in his chest pocket. “Not gonna get a pat-down any time soon, am I?”

“Not today. You know where the cells are?”

“Yes. What’s our timeline?”

Checks his watch. “Uh... last I heard – four hours. You get Prescott in there and you come find me. I want the key back, or you’ll be fuckin’ roadkill.”

Sean gives him a curt nod. “Anything else?”

“We never had this conversation. Get the fuck outta here.”

And so they do part ways, eyes averted. Sean doesn’t intend on using the key.

*

“Feels like heaven... West Virginia... Blue ridge mountains... Shenandoah River...”

Nathan loads a new wash cycle, cyclical repetition like the whirring innards of the machines themselves, dancing in unison in the isolated laundry room. Two COs watch the workers as they handle daily cleaning. Nathan can handle this job on any other day. Today, he’s checking every second minute to see if someone’s coming to get him. A Valkyrie messenger, perhaps. Get this in motion. He’d sooner face Vaas than listen to his fellow worker sing any longer.

“Life is oooold here... older than the trees–”

“Nemo, less singing, more loading,” a CO calls. Nathan’s grateful, and a bit upset. He was just getting used to it, too. But Nemo doesn’t seem concerned. He faces the CO and sets a load to dry as he bellows, eyes locked, big grin on his face: “ _Younger than the mountains..._ blowing like a breeze, country roads...”

His voice bounces around the low ceiling and rows upon rows of washers and dryers and folding tables, drowned out by the incessant hums and whirring, but not entirely removed. Nathan’s quiet. So are the remaining workers in here. Nemo’s always been a little off the deep end, but it might be what’s helping him sing to such an ungrateful audience. Well... most of them, anyway.

“Take me home.... to the place.... _I belong!”_

Two loud bangs.

The room stands still. Workers scattered around halt and look to the entrance. The machines are indifferent, but even the COs heard them. Gunshots.

A few more. One of the guards sprints out. The other one turns to the room at large.

“BACK TO YOUR CELLS! _NOW!”_

No need to tell them twice; even Nemo’s not so festive anymore. Nathan’s falling into the queue, befuddled. Those were definitely gunshots. Is someone trying to break out? Assault an officer?

“Not you.” The CO drags Nathan out of the line. Barks at the rest of them.

“Keep moving, assholes.”

Indecipherable yelling coming from several floors above and away. The CO keeps a hold on Nathan until the room is emptied out.

“Fucking let me go!” He pushes away from the officer. “Why’d you–”

But as he tries to leave, he’s pushed back again. The officer doesn’t look like he’s enjoying this. A strange face – one of fear, and regret, and annoyance. He swiftly leaves the laundry and shuts the door behind him, locking it.

“Hey! _What the fuck!”_ Nathan’s banging on the door with both fists. It’s tempered glass; he can see outside. A lot of people running up and down the hall. Shouting. More gunshots.

“Let – me – _OUT!”_ He punches, and kicks, and slams laundry baskets and chairs onto it. It’s a strong door. He considers a secondary exit – yes, there’s a door at the back of the room. He’s never known what it leads to – it’s an emergency exit, isn’t it? He peeks over the washers; yes, there’s the sign. His eyes move downward, expecting to see the door in full view.

“Hello, Nathan.”

He feels his back slam onto the door he’d been trying to break down. Breath erratic. One hand’s shaking.

Vaas shuts the exit behind him. The room isn’t large, but the rows of machines between them make it seem so. Even so, Nathan can see every crevice of Vaas’s face. The lamps above them flicker and shake, veils of dust dancing off the edges and the pipes along the ceiling. Vaas begins to walk toward him, taking a left around the rows.

“You don’t look happy to see me. Wasn’t this your plan all along?”

It’s instinctive. Nathan walks around to the other side of the rows, keeping Vaas in sight. They don’t stop moving. The machines between them and the open channels keeping them apart as they circle. In sight, at this distance, he can still think clearly. Any closer and fear might cloud him – or at least that’s what he thinks.

“Pretty bold, you know.” Vaas begins tapping on each washer as he passes it, a rhythmic drum roll with his fingers. “Buying your way into the Valkyries. To be honest, you probably could’ve talked to them for free.”

Dread wouldn’t quite describe what he feels, knowing Vaas had been aware – and for how long? Whatever it is, don’t stop moving. Don’t let him get closer. As Vaas turns a corner, Nathan gets closer to the exit door.

“And you asked to see... Yinna. And you asked them to – what – subdue Larry? So you could come to my cell and...” Vaas chuckles, side-eyeing him. “And have a go at me? Is that it?”

The exit’s right behind him now. He stops. Doesn’t take his eye off Vaas. Vaas stops too, still across the room. As they come to their new positions, there’s a rumble – tremors through the floor and ceiling and walls, shaking more dust off the hanging tube lamps, making empty laundry baskets rattle. More rattling gunshots. Muffled yells. Nathan doesn’t want to think about what the fuck is going on out there – not just yet.

“Hooh! Wow!” Vaas glances upward, grinning. “Have – have you seen how crazy it is outside? I just came from the yard – it’s like a volcano went off somewhere...” And he looks down at Nathan, still frozen where he is. “Pretty crazy inside too, though.”

Nathan considers bolting through the exit. What if it’s locked? What if someone’s on the other end, waiting to shank him?

“Oh, you wanna run now?” Vaas begins circling again, getting closer. “After all that bravado? After poor Hick tried to talk you out of it?”

Should he move? Should he charge at Vaas? Should he vault over the machines and catch him by surprise? Or should he try the door?

“Go ahead, Nate. Door’s not locked. Nobody on the other side waiting to shank you.” A big smile again. “But I don’t think... you’d live with yourself. If you cut and ran now. Isn’t that right?”

Another rumble – louder this time. Stronger. Dust clouds his view of Vaas for a second. When it clears, he’s still smiling.

“Hey, you wanted to talk to Yinna, right? Now’s your chance!” Vaas throws his arms up, smiling even wider. “Come on. What’s on your mind, dear?”

For the first time, Nathan finds the strength to speak, as he pushes back and begins walking again, away from the exit.

“You – you – what?”

“Yinna’s more of an idea... than a person, really.” Vaas sticks his hands behind him as he walks now. “The Valkyries are mine. I don’t blame you for not figuring that out – but... all things considered... you fucked up. You fucked. Up, Nathan.”

He’s walking backwards now. Vaas is much closer, but not any faster. With both hands behind him, he leers across fluorescent, flickering shafts of light, no longer smiling.

“Tell you what – let’s make this interesting for both of us.” He stops walking, and so does Nathan. Vaas reaches under his shirt and pulls out a small, dark book, tucked into his pants. Yes – that’s what it had been about... at first.

“If you can last five minutes with me? I’ll give you this back. Here...” Vaas drops it on top of a silent dryer to his right. It’s just sitting there. “Here, I’ll leave it here. If you can get to it in under five minutes... you can have it, Nathan. That’s a promise.” Another smile. Another lie.

“Bullshit.” Nathan’s struggling to find his voice. He’s quieter than he thought he’d be.

“No, no – I mean it. But you gotta earn it. Now come on.”

Vaas brings his hands forward, letting them hang. Another rumble shakes the laundry room – louder than any other before it, and gunshots echo in halls much closer than before, and Nathan’s ready this time. More so than when he’d last seen Vaas. He lunges with a primal scream, grabbing the smaller man by the collar.

Vaas is unreasonably fast. A step back, and another forward – Nathan’s missed his grip, but Vaas has both hands on his face, bringing his forehead crashing into Nathan’s nose. He falls, blood spurting across the stale linoleum.

“Come on. On your feet.” Vaas rubs his brow ridge, breathing a little heavier. That did hurt. Nathan pushes himself up, streams of blood flowing from his nose down his neck, staining the orange fabric.

Nathan goes for hooks. A left, a right – an uppercut. Every one blocked with impact, ones he feels in his elbow. It’s futile. Vaas sends a forward jab into his sternum, knocking the wind out of him and sending him on the floor again. Vaas hasn’t moved. Nathan pushes to his feet again, grabbing a washer for support, chest throbbing.

“ _COME ON!”_ He slams the dryer with his fist, palpable frustration. “You wanna die in this laundry like a fucking rat? Do you have _anything_ to offer me? Is anything worthwhile about you? Fucking _come on,_ Nathan!”

Another scream, and another lunge – this time for his legs. Nathan grabs him, lifting him off the floor – surprisingly heavy. Charges across the room with all the strength he has, only to slip when Vaas brings an elbow down on his spine. Rolling on the floor, he scrambles to gain distance – only to get locked down as Vaas brings an arm around his throat.

“ _Hnng!_ Yeah – yeah – you fucked up big time, Prescott – but you know what? I’m not even mad. It’s been a while since I – ugh! Stay still!” Nathan kicks his shin, hard. Vaas uses a leg to pin down Nathan’s. Tightens his choke hold and rolls over on top of Nathan, immobilizing him. The loudest gunshots yet come from beyond the exit door, now mere feet from him.

“You really – _ergh!_ Really didn’t last long, kiddo... Kinda let down, you know? But this –” And he tightens further, and Nathan can’t breathe any more, lights popping. He claws at Vaas’s rigid arms with both hands, reaching up and grabbing bits of his face, nails scraping at eyes and hair and lips – anything to get him off. Vaas keeps twisting his head away.

“This – is – for – the _best.”_

Vision growing more shadowy, chest about to explore, Nathan claws at the floor, pounding it, kicking – anything to get Vaas off him, and yet, it’s useless. And he slows, and stops, and lets it happen. Maybe this makes sense. Maybe he’s done. It’s not so bad, to be done with a life like this. There are worse ways to go... right? 

_Just... stick around. Okay? Be safe._

Maybe Max knew this would happen. Is that why she visited? To warn him? Is she a prophet too? No... what’s he saying? He was never a prophet... never anything more than the bloodstained trash of Arcadia Bay. Forget Max. Forget Rachel. Forget the book, and forget Vaas. All of this... is for the best.

“SHYDE!”

Amidst closing eyes, Nathan hears a distant click. Footsteps. Vaas’s arm comes a little loose.

“Get off him! Now!”

Vaas’s voice comes through too, distant as well. “You sure you know what you’re–”

A thunderous crack, like lightning, and Nathan feels a colossal weight come down between his legs, reverberating through the floor. Vaas screams and rolls off him, letting air through once more. Nathan coughs, and coughs, and blinks light back into him, kicking at Vaas across the floor as he crawls away, sitting up against a washer, rubbing his throat.

Vaas sits across from him, breathing deep and heavy, grabbing his leg. He’s bleeding. Profusely. It’s his left calf. Glaring up at the assailant. Nathan follows his stare.

Sean Diaz stands above them both, a gleaming black pistol in both hands, aimed squarely at Vaas’s face. Without taking his eyes off the target, he leans over and offers Nathan a hand.

“Get up. Hurry. Now.”

Even as Nathan pushes up, a new explosive rumble shakes the room, staggering them both. It’s far closer than before.

“The fuck is going on out there?” he rasps. Sean doesn’t answer.

“We’re getting out. Follow me.”

“Getting out-!?”

“No time. Shut up and _move.”_ He motions with his gun to the exit door, which now stands open. Head still spinning, Nathan dives in the opposite direction, grabbing the book from atop the machine. Gives Vaas one last look.

He’s still on the floor, soundless, glaring up at him. Nathan walks past Sean toward the door, and Sean backs up too, gun aimed on Vaas until they’re past the threshold. Sean shuts the door behind them.

“Move. Come on.”

“Where are we-?” Nathan shuts up as he walks, dragged on by Sean, and they pass a bleeding corpse on the floor.

“Te-Terrence?” Nathan sputters. “What the – he’s dead – Diaz, he’s fucking dead!”

“Shut _up_!” Sean yanks him out of the hall and into a central lobby, gun raised, as he does a sweep of the corners. The full extent of those explosions earlier is evident.

The lobby’s littered with bodies. Makeshift barricades – upended tables and chairs – lay scattered with bullet holes, floor singed with the ashen black dust of gunpowder, caked with dirty blood pooling at the drains, trickling out under upended corpses – wearing both kinds of uniforms. There’s gunfire echoing above them and as Nathan looks up, he sees the telltale streaks of bullets cutting through all the dust and smoke, shooting across from one balcony to another. Down, ahead of them, a hole in the wall about the size of a single person, bricks torn asunder.

“Stay on the walls. Move fast. Don’t run out into the open. Don’t let them spot you from above.” Sean nods toward the opening. “We get out that way. Got it?”

Nathan’s gone very pale. He nods, following Sean as they both inch across the lobby. Frequent shots keep firing above, and they use those little bursts to gain some speed and move closer to the hole. Nathan’s shoes graze pools of blood, as they step over somebody’s arm. He feels a strange prickling in his fingers, blood pounding in his ears. Eyes unfocused.

They’re at the hole. Sean seems to be looking outside. Daylight pouring in, glazing over the mangled red body of whoever was in front of the wall when they blew it open. Daylight, and... something else. Something inexplicable.

“It’s clear. Let’s move. Stay _close.”_

“D-Diaz... he’s – he’s in p-pieces...” Even his own voice doesn’t feel like his own. Sean turns and gives Nathan a few hard slaps on the shoulder.

“Hey – Pres-Nathan. _Nathan._ Look at me. Look here. Hey.” Nathan finally pulls his eyes off the scene to meet Sean’s. He doesn’t look any less pale. His lip is trembling.

“I need you to focus, alright? Don’t look at shit. Don’t look at anything. Just look ahead. We’re getting outta here, but we have to stop wasting time. You understand?”

Nathan nods again.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

They step through the shattered bricks, out under the open skies and the yard – now strewn with broken bits of concrete, and pipes, and iron. A few bodies out here too, on the grass. Don’t look.

They begin running. Nathan doesn’t know, toward what. He’s following Sean, blindly. It’s all he can do. But even in his state, he looks up at the sky, and down around, to see the strangest thing...

Snow? No, it’s not snow... it can’t be snow. It’s not cold. It’s actually warm... and whatever’s falling isn’t white. It’s grey.

“Nathan! Get on!”

He looks away from the grounds and up in front of him. It’s a truck. A truck with fat, heavy wheels – gas rumbling up in his face – and the back door wide open, and the back packed with inmates. There are more trucks dotted across the yard, curling their way toward the gates. Even as he watches, inmates are leaping onto them like frogs. Sean’s already climbing onto this one, and he reaches out for Nathan.

“Fucking hurry! We’re going, come on!”

Nathan grabs his arm and pulls himself on, and someone closes the door behind them. Nathan finds a spot on the bench, crammed between Sean and someone else. Someone cheers, and screams, and shouts in joy, while others laugh. Others still, like Sean and Nathan, aren’t saying much. The truck begins to move, and Nathan watches – through the little grate on the closed door – as the walls of the prison fall away, far behind them, as they pass through a wide-open gate. Smoke rising from the building. And the strange snow continues.

“You see that?” Nathan mumbles to Sean, nudging him. “It’s raining ash. It’s... that’s weird, right?”

“Yeah.” Sean’s rubbing the pistol with both hands, hunched over. Still quite pale. “Yeah, weird.”

“You boys almost didn’t make it.” Another inmate, sitting at the end, closest to the driver, addresses them. “Lucky pair, eh?”

“Lucky pair!” Someone else chimes in, toasting an imaginary glass. “We drink to our luck? Let’s drink to our luck!”

“Who fuckin’ planned this shit!?”

“Who cares? I’m goin’ home.”

“Where you boys headed?” The same man asks again, looking at Sean. “We can drop you off.”

Nathan has no earthly idea. He’s still not processed what just happened. He stares off at the floor. Sean clears his throat.

“Uh, there’s – there’s this town... it’s not out of state, but I don’t know where exactly. Coastal.”

“Got a name?”

“Arcadia Bay.”

Nathan’s head jerks out of its torpor. He’s staring at Sean. There’s no way in hell this could be real. But the others say the name again, and again, and he knows it’s real.

“Arcadia Bay?”

“Don’t know no Arcadia Bay.”

“One o’ them small town deals? Off the map n’ shit? No?”

“We can drop you off on the PCH. You’re on your own from there. And remember – hitchhiking’s illegal.” A few more laughs out of that.

Sean takes it. There’s little else to take. He’d have to figure out what to do with Nathan soon. Fill him in, and ask him what needs asking. And there’s a lot to think about – especially considering what he just did. But right now, there’s only the rumble of the truck beneath their feet, the feel of the cold pistol between his trembling fingers, the sound of gravel crunching as they pass over dirt roads, and the sight of ash that falls like gentle snow, beyond the grate of the truck, and all the way to the horizon.


	7. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron disappears without a trace. Max opens doors she'd sworn to keep locked. Ray chases a new lead that could bring it all to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update as of August 20th: I don't know if you're still reading this, but there has been a significant delay in chapter 8, sorry about that. I'm suffering severe writer's block and there's a lot going on in my life at the moment. But I haven't abandoned this fic; I will get back to it. The new chapter is about 15 pages in; not finished, but it's underway. Just really slowly. My bad!

_Has it been so long since I stood_

_by the broken road and quiet woods_

_where I met you?_

_The sky is mute, we don’t talk anymore_

_why can’t I go back to before_

_those lonely evening suns_

_before I met you?_

_The grass is wet below me_

_I’ve yet to say goodbye_

_but summer’s gone and the leaves catch fire_

_is it too late to try?_

_If my cry may reach you_

_years before_

_when we held hands and so much more_

_I call through time to you and me_

_to never walk together, never laugh or see_

_what made us beautiful_

_what made us free_

_Those old chains I’d wear again_

_be lost alone in wind and rain_

_if it meant I never met you_

_if it meant I never flew_

Scribbled ink on paper; bent and folded time and again, the poem is legible, but quick to fade. Some words at the end are smudged. Some lines crossed out entirely. A picture of a butterfly graces the blank space by the lines – sketched in ink, bleeding at the edges. Hands holding the page stroke it softly, pulling and stretching to ease out the creases and read better.

Aaron Vonn leans back against the seat in the booth, hands together between his knees, lower lip bitten in perpetual unease. He’s trying to catch a glimpse of her face, read a reaction. But it’s obscured by the page. She finally puts it down, both hands still on it. Staring off into the table.

“Wow.”

“What?” Aaron’s still not convinced she likes it. Or if it’s good at all. It’s probably corny. “Is it corny?”

“Corny – Aaron!” She grabs his cap from the table and smacks him over the head. “It’s amazing! Are you for real?”

“Hmm...” He nods a bit and goes in for another bite of his sandwich. Fries are out. Soda’s halfway done. Camille hasn’t made quite as much progress on lunch, having been latched to the page. But even as he reads her face, he knows it’s not all she has to say.

“What?” He speaks through a mouthful of food. “Whaf’s wong? Jus’ shay it.” 

“It’s just...” She places it on the table, smoothening it out. “It’s really good. But – I don’t know – it’s kinda sad. I dunno. Isn’t it?”

Aaron swallows, reaching for the cup. “Yeah.” Slurps. Gulps. “Yeah, it’s supposed to be. What’s wrong with sad?”

“Nothing wrong with... sad...” She’s trying to put it in a way that won’t offend him. It’s really not doable with Aaron. “It’s just – a poem is a story. Any song is. And when you tell a story, it’s – it’s like – it’s gotta mean something. Or people won’t... like – connect with it. You know?”

Aaron knows he can be difficult. He knows he’s the one who asked Camille for her opinion. So he tries his best to deliver this in a way that isn’t ladled with annoyance.

“So – so – you – uh, you think it’s like – not meaningful? Or...?”

“No, it’s – okay, look.” Deep breath, eye contact. “When you tell a sad story, it can’t.... _just_ be sad. It’s also gotta give people hope. That you can come out of the... the – whatever’s like – making it sad. It’s gotta have an answer.”

“That’s not how life works though,” Aaron retaliates, arms crossed. “Shit’s just bad sometimes. It’s not always – _wrapped up_ in a neat little bow with some happy answer at the end–”

“I know, but this isn’t real life!” She taps the page. “It’s your song. It doesn’t have to look like real life. That’s why we imagine stuff, right? We – we – make movies, and paint, and write poetry, write stories – we try to... uh... try to – give... meaning... to the – to the – what’s the word... the _randomness_ of actual... tragedy.”

Aaron smirks a little. “Cam, if you wanna say randomness is meaningless, then like – isn’t life meaningless?”

“No – I mean – random tragedy _can_ be meaningless. Unless you... want it to mean something. Does that make sense?”

Unabashedly shakes his head, smiling. “Nah.”

She takes a moment. The bustling of the storefront is quieter than usual. A few booths occupied, most of them by lone people – nobody likes those spindly chairs. The kitchen behind them is a cacophony of hisses, thumps and small slams, weightless beeps from the cash register dialing in “an Angus Pounder with triple cheese and triple sauce”, a foot tapping in shameless impatience as its owner waits with crossed arms for whatever he ordered. Ketchup drips on printed ads as hungry mouths shovel down the mass-produced reassurance of uniform familiarity. A blaze of grey sun tumbles through two layers of windows – those of the store, and those of the hospital’s hallway beyond the cafeteria, looking out at the parking lot and beyond. It’s honestly more crowded out there than in here. A rare sight. Aaron shifts his gaze back to Camille, who’s gathered her thoughts.

“Okay, look... here’s an example. You know my dad died three years ago, right? Well – he didn’t like – go out in some heroic, poetic way. It didn’t make any sense. He just died. One day he was there, then he wasn’t. Nobody’s fault either. I couldn’t find anyone to blame. I tried blaming mom. I tried blaming _me._ But none of that’s fair. It’s just – you’re right, bad shit just happens. In real life.”

Aaron’s quiet. She hasn’t spoken this much about it before.

“But... if you wanted me to write a _story_ where – like – the main character’s dad dies? I’d make it so his death _meant_ something to the plot, you know? Like he didn’t just die for nothing. Like something... good... should come out of something tragic. Because tragedy is like – so obvious, right? It’s everywhere. Everyone knows life sucks. So if your song is _only_ tragic, it doesn’t... it won’t connect. It’s gotta have a message that you won’t find in real life. Like a poetic answer that gives people hope. Am I–? I’m ranting, I’m – stupid, I don’t know...”

But he’s at a loss for words. She might have had trouble putting it together – but it’s not entirely untrue. Something he’d have to come to terms with. Now that it makes sense, his first instinct is to fight it. Argue back. Reject the new truth. The immediate rebuttal is obvious.

“But if the song is unrealistic, won’t that – like – also not connect with people? ‘Cause it’ll be like a fairy tale.”

“Since when have fairy tales not connected with people!?” Camille laughs. “Aaron, people _love_ fairy tales. Not that your song’s gotta be _that_ out there. Just – when something bad happens, we all want it to make sense. Even if it doesn’t. It’s what people want.”

“Right...” He wants to go for some more fries, but doesn’t really have the appetite anymore. “So – how would you make this better?”

Her eyes go wide. “M-me? I can’t – it’s your song.”

“So what?”

She giggles. “So if I change it, it’s not your song anymore.”

Aaron reiterates, laughing too. “So fucking what!? It’ll be our song. What’s the big deal?”

Her face is flushed, though he really doesn’t notice. “I dunno, I don’t really write... songs... I might mess it up!”

“No you won’t.”

“What if I do!?”

“Then I’ll write another one! Just – give it a shot. Come on. I wanna see what you do.”

She squints at him slyly. “You recruiting me for your band? Is that what this is?”

“Do you... wanna be in a band?”

“No!” Loud laughter. “I mean – I dunno! Sounds cool.”

“I’ll drop your name on stage before I play the song.”

“Don’t you dare!” She punches his arm across the table.

“I’ll have the spotlights point you out.”

“I won’t show up!”

“Yeah you will. I’ll be playing our song, you don’t wanna be there for that?” Big toothy grin. Camille seems more convinced – she’s blushing hard, and he’s entirely oblivious. 

“I – I – okay, I’ll only try my best – do _not_ judge me.” Points a warning finger. “I gotta go type this up then...”

“Nah, just mark up the page.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s better that way. More authentic.”

“Authentic.” Giggles again. Takes out her phone and snaps a photo of the yellowing page.

“Preserving the original,” she narrates, sending it to him. “No promises, and don’t you dare make fun of me if it’s bad.”

“Not a chance.” Aaron leans back, taking another gulp of soda. “And hey – you need a ride to the concert?”

Her eyebrows shoot up as she carefully folds the page, pocketing it. “When’s... the... concert?”

Inconceivable. His hands flip up in indignation. “It’s _tomorrow,_ Cam. I’ve told you – like – since a week ago. You’re invited. I got your ticket already.”

“Oh...” She had genuinely forgotten. Not that it’s a good defence. Aaron’s not easy to calm down.

“I – uh... I’m sorry, I – I have this thing, with my mom – some family’s coming over, so...”

She’d give anything to be anywhere else, seeing how much wider Aaron’s eyes can get. “A thing. With your mom. You’re _not coming._ That right?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Get a little defensive, or he’ll chew you up. “I can’t say no to family stuff. And I’ve got homework too.”

Aaron scoffs. “Homew- why didn’t you tell me, then? Woulda saved me some cash.”

“I didn’t know my family was coming until yesterday.”

Bullshit. At least that’s what he thinks. She’s recoiled in her side of the booth, arms crossed, eyes to the floor. Is she just one of those people who cancel last minute? Doesn’t strike him as the type. But it’s immeasurably beyond him why she hadn’t told him sooner.

Of course, she knows why. It’s not remotely true, what she’d just said. Camille knew her mother had plans that day. But she couldn’t say no to Aaron either. Blind, hopefully blind, she’d assumed – with little thought – that the universe might fall into place for her. That she’d have the best of both worlds. What if her mom cancelled last minute, but she’d turned down Aaron? That could’ve been a possibility. A lot could’ve been. Not enough spine to choose any one and stick with it, she tells herself.

“Right – well, uh – yeah, okay. Whatever.” He slaps the table with both hands and gets to his feet. Puts on his cap, ready to get back to the shift. It’ll be too late in a few minutes. She panics.

“Hey – chill out! Jesus. I’ll come, alright?”

“No, it’s cool–”

“I can – blow off my mom for one day. No big deal.” She hopes she’s looking casual about it. Aaron’s entirely too easy to read, though. His face brightens.

“You – you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s your first concert, can’t miss.”

“Kay, it’s at the Ravenhouse – underground stairwell on the right side, can’t miss it – under the big parking lot – on –”

“Fifth avenue and South Michigan,” she finishes. “Next to the Credit Union, right? I remember now. Relax. I’ll be there after work.”

“Don’t need a ride? ‘Cause I can wait till you’re done your shift–”

“No no, you’ll need the time to rehearse. Right? I dunno how shows work...”

He laughs a little. “That – that is how they work, yeah. Guess I’ll see you then.”

“Aaron! Camille!” Marvin’s telltale squawk informs them they’ve overused their lunch break. “Back to your stations, please. Hello, ma’am. How can I... pizza? No ma’am, this is McDonald’s...”

“Let’s go.” He waits for her.

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

The store could be busier. Aaron swerves back around the counter to delve back into polished chrome monotony, his mind alive with the dusty beats of fingers tapping on a mic, crowd of faces doused in blue, spotlights warming his skin. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be special.

Camille leans against the booth, on her feet, taking advantage of the customers distracting Marvin. Phone out. Here it goes.

_Hey mom sorry but I forgot to tell you about a group project. We have to practice for a presentation tomorrow. I already said_

She stops. Is it too obvious? Or is she coming across too demanding?

_Hey mom. Really sorry but I can’t come home tomorrow after work. We have a group_

No, still too rude, isn’t it? Is it? She’s not even entirely sure.

“Camille? Break’s over!”

“Yeah – just a second, please? I’ll be right there...”

_Hey is it okay if I don’t come home tomorrow after work? I have a group project coming up and we’re all practising tomorrow night. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I totally forgot_

That’s... better. Phrase it as a question. What if she says it’s not okay? Camille’s not one to think ahead too much. She’ll deal with it when it comes. She pockets her phone and glances out through the windows of the store, across the little hallway and into the hospital parking lot visible beyond. Her body freezes where she stands.

It can’t possibly be. Could it?

It’s a bear. Immense, dark and slow. Standing in the rain, looking straight at her through the panes and walls. Is it a statue? A costume? No – it moves its head around, and steps ahead a little. The flesh is too natural. Too real to be a ruse. It’s alive. The fur on its back moves with its breath, even though it stands still, hesitant to shift its legs. Looks back at her again.

A bear. In Seattle. In a bustling parking lot. Have people noticed? She peels her eyes off it to see if anyone else in the store had spotted it. Nope – everyone’s engrossed in their phones and their food. She considers calling out to Aaron. To Marvin. Or even a stranger right next to her. Look – look outside – there’s a fucking bear. Who do you call? The police? Animal control?

But as Camille turns back to get a second look, the beast does the last thing she expects. Its eyes seemingly locked firmly on hers, through sheets of rain and glossy glass, she watches as its body reverberates where it stands, and bleeds into a blurrier form of itself – like a much older photograph forced onto a new one, their resolutions stark – until it becomes indecipherable. The bear is gone.

Camille stands there, phone in hand vibrating, and takes in the sight. Blinking doesn’t make it easier. She can’t run out there to see – even if she wants to. It’s too far out, and Marvin’s breathing down her neck. But the bear did in fact, vanish before her eyes.

“Camille? Help this line now please?”

“Ye- yeah...”

Get a hold of yourself. It’s raining, visibility is low. She probably saw... what? Camille makes her way around the counter, pocketing her mother’s calls without notice. The customer’s mouth pushes out sluggish syllables she can’t hear, a face she can’t see. What’s an explanation for that?

“... and uh, fries? Large? And like, a – you guys got like those new like, cheese poppers?”

She puts the order in without an answer. A bear... was it a cardboard cut-out someone was moving? No... she saw its head move. She saw the animal turn to look – right at her. How could it? And how did it seemingly vanish from sight?

“Yo, I asked for medium, not large? Can you change that...”

“Your ticket’s 440.” Hands him the slip and slides off to the side, pretend to do something really important. Kuldeep passes her to take her place. She appreciates it. Where’s Aaron?

“Cam.”

There he is. Coming out of the freezer with a new bag of sauce. Gawking at her.

“What’re you doing? You alright?” Slight grin on his face, but mostly concern.

“Yeah... yeah, fine. Just – tired.”

“Don’t let Marvin see you. He’s gonna make you do some stupid useless shit if you don’t look busy.”

She chooses not to tell him. Not yet, for sure. Even though the sheer peculiarity of it is too great to keep to herself – she does. Aaron’s not her sounding board. She doesn’t want to treat him like a dump for her baggage. Someone to run to whenever she panics. Not fair to treat a person like your life preserver, is it? And besides, this isn’t really that big a deal. So she saw a bear – maybe they’re filming a movie out there, and they need a live bear for it.

There. That makes sense. Some “authentic” filmmakers go for that these days, don’t they? Those no-CGI purists? They got a trained bear for a scene. The disappearance was probably just a trick of rainwater on glass. It probably just walked out of her field of view.

Refusing to tell Aaron is a choice she finds more reasonable by the second. And as she makes it, gravity finds her again. The sounds of the kitchen are louder, and her feet are firm. And her phone’s been vibrating for the last few minutes. Ever since she texted her mom about her little group project. She firmly wants to believe Aaron is worth the trouble. He probably is. So she might as well peel the band-aid off now, with her cancelling on her family. Won’t be pretty. She finds the employee washroom and locks the door.

*

“...Next on the list, next on the list – let’s place on 5th patrol in Laurenhurst starting tomorrow. Ye – yes, Nimrah’s in charge. And my 11 o’clock is open tomorrow, so put two – no, three interviews down. Okay...? Good. Your deadline for the staff report updates got extended. Thank Deputy Carne for that when you can...”

Honking cars and a lone man’s drunken screams barely make it up to the rooftop parking space. Looking out over the barrier, and there’s a vast and merciless city, lights that glimmer like uncaring beacons in the dark – whether you follow them or not, is up to you. His car isn’t the only one up here – but there aren’t too many. It’s late. The sky overcast and the air heavy, and soon to bring down rain once more; smell of wet concrete and cheap Hakka takeout, wafting up from the bustling street below. Ray wonders if he should get some for dinner tonight – nah. No question. Very bad for you.

“Also – when’s my meeting with the Captain? Wednesday? Schedule a call with him for me... for tomorrow... let’s say noon.”

Ray leans against his car, coat draped over the roof. Bluetooth headphones lodged in both ears, gleaming blue rings on them that peer through the semi-dark pillars and silent cars on the lot. Scrolling his phone as he talks.

“Anything else we should go over? How’re your classes going?... Oh, that bad, huh... Yeah, I know it can get there... Alright then, see you tomorrow. G’night.” 

Taps the call off on his phone. Earphones out. The sounds of the street come flooding back in, as does the quiet of the lot. There’s water dripping somewhere. Dim fluorescent lights off in the distance, but over here in his corner, it’s dark. Only light he can see is the glimmering vista of the city to his left. It’s peaceful here.

_Slam._

Someone just came through the stairwell door. Tough, clicking footsteps. Heels. Not too high. Ray hears them approach from behind. Sees the woman walk past him, stop and turn to make eye contact. He realizes he’s shrouded in darkness, so he breaks the ice.

“Hey, Freyja.”

“Oh fuck, it’s you. You scared me.” She’s more visible than he is, although not by much.

“Sorry.”

“What’re you still doing here? It’s late.”

He nods, arms crossed. Sniffs. “Yeah, I’m – just about to head out. Just had to take care of a few things.”

“Right.” She’s nodding too, standing a little stiff. Bag in one hand, coat in the other. “Did you... do the thing you had to do?”

“What?”

“At Mads. The ID results...?”

“Oh.” It dawns on him what she’s on about. Was that really today? Yes it was, he’s still not properly dry.

“No... I couldn’t get in. Won’t believe me if I tell you why.”

She steps a bit closer, leans on the pillar across from him. He can see her a little better now. Long hair that gleams brown against the dim city glow.

“Are you... waiting for me to ask?”

He snorts. “My access card to Mads... got stolen.” Ends it with a sigh. “By this little shit who works at McDonald’s.”

She snorts too, in much the same way. “That doesn’t even sound plausible.”

“It happened.”

“Why were you in-?”

“Coffee.”

“... And why would anyone-?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did you find out?” She’s laughing a bit.

“Yeah, I ran around a bit – the kid resigned _today,_ fat coincidence. And he’s apparently giving it back – tomorrow.”

She snorts. “You’re just, what – letting him keep it for a day? Ray, that’s irresponsible.”

He’s quiet. Staring out over the buildings beyond them. A lone eagle comes to perch on the telephone pole near him. It’s almost looking – right at him. No, he’s certain it is.

“I just have a lot on my... my plate.”

“Yeah, we all do. That’s the job. Not an excuse to let someone steal something like that.”

Ray laughs, trying not to get wound up. “Forget it.”

“... Okay.”

They’re both quiet now, and it looks like it might be over. She pushes through the new frost between them, trying for one last exchange. At least one of them should try.

“So – coroner’s still quiet on the body. Did you talk to – what’s-her-face, that Maxine Caulfield today? Or was she passed out all day?”

Shakes his head. “No, she woke up. That’s why I got robbed, really. Forgot my wallet at the store when I ran up to see her...”

Her eyebrows fly up, but it’s dark, so he sees nothing. He’s not really looking at her anyway.

“She woke up, I told her to get an attorney, and I just – I don’t know.”

“You just what?”

He doesn’t know how to phrase this. Or even if he wants to. Biting both his lips, he pushes off his car and strides toward the barrier a little, hands clasped. She stays on her pillar, watching closely.

“You okay, Ray?”

He drops his chin and turns a bit, finally looking at her with a sideways gaze. Small grin.

“Do I look... not okay?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Not myself?”

“Not yourself.”

“Hmm...” He’s relieved, at least, that someone else thinks so. Someone else agrees. “Well, you’re... not wrong.”

“You sound surprised. Care to share?” She smooths out her tone and tilts her head a bit, to come off a bit friendlier. She’s been told she needs to work on that. He appreciates it, though he doesn’t say so.

“It’s – it’s this strangest thing, Freyja... I can’t even place it...” He walks back to his spot on the car again, eyes on the ground. “It’s like – it’s like I _know_ her. Or something. She’s... not... familiar, but she’s... but she _is._ And in a really specific way. I don’t – I don’t know anything about her. But I feel like we’ve met before.”

“Wait – you mean this Caulfield woman?”

“Yes.”

A bit baffling, and wholly unexpected. She hides it. Maybe it’s his way of coping with something else going on.

“Specific way... how?”

“I – I don’t know. I just know that – when I saw her at her place last night – and even at the hospital – I don’t know, it’s...” He’s really struggling to put it together. It shows on his face, in the fraction of light he gets from the streetlamps below them.

“It’s this – this terrible feeling, and it’s weird, and it’s not completely bad either – just... strange.”

Freyja nods slowly, waiting for him to elaborate. “Hmm. Strange. But – what, because you think you know her?”

“I _don’t_ know her. That’s the thing. I know we’ve never met. But I feel like we’re... _tied_ , somehow. I don’t know how else to put it. Like we’ve both been in the same places together. At some point.”

“I see.”

“So that’s why I – I freaked and left the hospital.”

“And went to the morgue.”

“That’s...” He shakes his head in a derisive way. “No, not related. I wanted to see the body again, see if we missed anything.”

“You wanted a distraction,” she corrects.

“Didn’t get one though, did I? Little fucker stole my card.” Smirks and looks out again.

“Well, I mean – that’s still a distraction.” She smiles too. “And besides, you realize you sound a little off the deep end about Caulfield, right? Maybe you just saw her in public somewhere. Does she look like someone you know?”

She didn’t get it at all. Or maybe he didn’t explain it well enough. He’s tempted to brush it off with another ‘forget it’, but knows if he goes there, she’ll pull away and won’t look back. She’s trying to reach out. He knows not to dismiss that.

“I... yeah. I know it sounds pretty weird. She’s probably just a familiar face, you’re right.”

Agreeing with her to keep her from pulling away. She knows what he’s doing. She knows that tone – he wants to say something, but replaces it for a safer choice. But even if she does see through it – who is she to call it out? It’s likely his only way of showing he does want her company. Even if he doesn’t want her advice.

“So... we’re running dry on the body,” she starts again. “Still no ID, coroner’s quiet. I put in a request to send out some circulations.”

“Didn’t think they’d allow a dead man’s face popping up on everyone’s phones.”

“They don’t.” She smirks. “The city will pass a rendered image, though. Doesn’t take much. Reconstruction should be done tomorrow. Thought you knew that, being lieutenant and all.”

“Yeah, just...” He gives a little wave and looks off outside again. “Forgot, I guess. Distracted. You know?”

“Beeecause of... Caufield?” Freyja drops a hint of mischief in her tone. “Shit, Ray, you don’t have a crush, do you?”

He puts on a face for an epiphany, albeit with no postural investment beyond his eyebrows. “Goddamn, that must be it. You’re a genius.”

“I am.”

“Sooner we ID the body, sooner I – _we_ can put this case away.” He pushes off the car again, stretching out his arms behind his back. Freyja leans off too – it’s time to go. This conversation wouldn’t stay fresh for long.

“So when are we sending out the alerts?” He opens his car door to toss his coat on the passenger seat.

“Render shouldn’t take more than a day, but the governor’s office has to approve any public messages, so – your guess is as good as mine.”

“Fuck me. They’re slow as all hell. That’ll take days.”

“Run for office, then.”

He squints at her. “ _You_ run for office.”

A hollow laugh. “Who needs the drama.” She smiles – a genuine one. He smiles back, smaller than hers, one arm resting on the open door frame of the car. He likes smiling with her. She breaks her gaze. Can’t look too long.

“I’ll take off. See you around.”

“Yeah. Drive safe.”

Freyja’s frame walks away, a glint of her eye looking back as she turned. She vanishes into shadows before her car blinks to life, red rear lights blaring onto the nearest pillars. He watches on – watches her get in, pull out, turn around and drive down and out. A few seconds, and he can’t hear the engine anymore. It’s silent here again.

Ray looks to his left again. The eagle’s still there. Still watching him. Flutters a bit, shifting its wings. It’s not fake, that’s for certain. Not his concern. He has to get home.

Gets back in his car, door slams shut to kick out the bustle of the streets and the damp silence of the parking lot. Now, it’s just the polished, gentle quiet of leather and wood and metal. Smell of a “forest”. It’s not bad.

That was a good talk. He’s in a good mood. Despite everything today, maybe the day could end well. A good talk with Freyja. Longer than any of the ones prior – in a good few months. He feels hopeful.

Some music wouldn’t go amiss. The car comes to life with his fingerprint and he expects it to kick in, blaring – but he’d turned it off himself many hours ago. Clicks it back on, so it picks up where it left off.

_“-the war! Why should they go out to fight?_

_They leave that to the poor, yeah!”_

*

Pad Thai with extra peanuts. Sesame seeds and bits of chicken poke out from under a dry, fried egg, noodle mess spilling out. Chopsticks attack the monster to no avail, but he’s not one to give up so easy. Should get used to these tools at some point, shouldn’t he? A mouthful goes in. It’s awful.

“Mmm – so yeah, that’s the McGrier case so far. Firoza and I went back to the apartment - _*burp*_ \- few days ago. Man had a whole stash of papers and photographs. Hidden in his goddamn TV. Can you believe that?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Ray’s voice comes through the loudspeaker on Maoro’s cell. “Least your corpse has a name.”

“No responses from the public assistance alert? I ran a check on our offenders database – nothing there.” Maoro wipes his mouth and dives in for another bite. Gotta finish this beast before he can no longer justify being on lunch break.

“Yeah – yeah, no. We’ve had some false alarms. People claiming they know the face, but – you know. It’s tricky. Christ, this isn’t the only thing on my plate, Vic. Aaklya’s been on my ass. Need to get it done.”

“Patience is rewarded, padawan.” Takes a swig of water.

“I’m not your fucking padawan.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Ray exhales into his phone to deliver the tiniest of chuckles. “Hey, so - you been in touch with… Caulfield?”

Vic’s brow shoots up a little. Leans back in his chair. “Caulfield? Max – Maxine, Caulfield?”

“No, the other one.”

Laughs. “No, not – well, last I spoke to her was three days ago. Had to take her off the force until you pull this shit together. Ramsey’s call.”

“Sounds like you don’t like it.”

“I… think it’s premature. But not completely unreasonable. Right? Why’re you asking?”

A few seconds of silence from Ray. The gentle parade of keyboard clicks and mouse taps and coffee mugs hitting polished wood take over Maoro’s ears, wafting in through his office door cracked ajar. Steadfast rumble of traffic from the window to his left. 

“She was in for questioning today.”

Maoro sits up, elbow on the table. Pad Thai forgotten.

“Yeah, she – well, she was being discharged. Abramovich and – Sharma, I think? Brought her in. I saw the footage of their talk.”

“And?” Maoro’s voice is sharper than it’s been this entire call. Ray doesn’t like it when he gets this way.

“She – uh… how do I say this…”

“You just say it, Ray.”

“Do you… know anything about her – well, this specific thing in her history? This… Mark Jefferson case?”

Maoro finds his arm stiff and frozen, gripping the phone harder. Foot begins to tap, knee bouncing.

“Maybe. She’s been with us for years, I might have seen that when I did her background. Can’t recall right now. Why?”

“Well, see – the detectives brought it up with her. And she–”

“Why – why’d they bring it up? How is it relevant?”

“… Not like you to ask that, Vic. Anything’s relevant if we want it to be. My guess is, they were trying to find common ground. She was – well, I don’t wanna say… instrumental…”

Sound of rustling paper. Ray’s reading something.

“… But… pretty instrumental, honestly. To that prosecution. Jefferson got put away, hard. Last I checked, he’s in long-term psych eval.”

Maoro waits for Ray to return to the point.

“Anyway, the detectives thought… connecting her prior experience to aiding police might push her to be more cooperative. And say anything that hasn’t already been said.”

“Hmm.” Maoro doesn’t like Maxine being put under the interrogation lamp. He hasn’t been a fan of this since the beginning. But he knows better than to divulge that to the degree that Ray starts looking at him different. A case is a case, right?

_So what about Max? I didn’t really know her that well, you know._

“But – when they brought it up, she – flipped out. Looked like she was gonna throw up. Don’t think she was faking either. I’m not playing doctor, Vic, but I’ve seen that sort of reaction. Has this ever happened before?”

_She had a dizzy spell. Not enough breakfast, apparently._

“Maybe she… didn’t agree with hospital food, Ray. Maybe she was just tired. She’s been in bed for – what – five days? Probably just needed some air.”

“No, you know what I’m talking about. Why’re you avoiding it?”

Teeth gritted. Being good friends is often a double-edged blade.

“Ray – she’s good at what she does. And she’s a good person.”

“I’m not talking about that. Vic, it’s just me here. You’re not on trial and she isn’t either. We’re just talking.”

Maoro breathes. He’s right. This unnecessary defensiveness has been frequent when it came to Maxine. With Ray. With Ramsey. Anyone who pushed on the subject.

“Yes. It happened a month ago. She – just – started to pass out. Hyperventilate. Never seen her like that before.”

“Do you know why?”

_You talking about Max? We were in high school together._

“… Well, I – I asked her. Later. Said she didn’t get enough to eat. Had a spell.”

“Hmm.” Not a satisfactory answer. But pushing any further could be problematic.

“So she…” Clears his throat. “What do you mean, flipped out?”

“She walked out. She was being completely cooperative… I think it was the subject that set her off. I’m only asking if she might have some… I’m gonna say, psychological – don’t take this the wrong way, Vic. But any psychological problems beyond what we already have on her file.”

Ray’s trying to be sensitive. Least he could do was try to be objective. Maoro sighs.

“I have your word this won’t reach Aaklya?”

“Yes. But you’re kinda scaring me now.”

“Nothing like that, it’s just – her personal matter. I don’t – I shouldn’t even know about it, let alone you. But… well, you know she has a type of amnesia.”

“Yeah, we confirmed with her therapist.”

“I… I spoke to someone who used to know her. During the time this Jefferson case happened. They weren’t close – Maxine and this – this other party. But they said that – before the whole thing got out, Maxine’s best friend got shot. And she saw it happen. In a… school bathroom. Something to that degree.”

“Oh, Christ. Shot, as in…?”

“Killed, yeah. The perp was also tied to the Jefferson thing. Both got prosecuted. From what I gathered, Maxine’s been, uh – traumatized – but that whole… incident. She’s been repressing it. Which is why she probably couldn’t handle talking about it.”

“Holy shit. And so this other time – she said lack of food? Was that true, or…?”

“She… well, the person I talked to was a potential witness for the McGrier case. Knew Maxine in high school. I asked Maxine to go ask her some questions, and the name on the file set her off. She told me that in confidence after the fact.”

“The McGrier case?”

“Happened on site when we were first called out there.”

“I see. So her amnesia, it’s… not? Amnesia?”

“No, it is. It’s – god, I forget what it’s called. Repression of memories from traumatic events. It’s not gone, really. I’m no doctor, though.”

“Alright. Thanks for telling me. I’ll – keep that in mind when we speak again.”

“Is that soon?” Maoro kicks off the chair to stretch his legs. Walks over to the window, one hand in pocket. He’s not looking outside, though. He doesn’t witness what’s taking place. He’s looking down, wondering if he’s made a mistake. No – Ray’s a friend. A close friend. It’s okay to share some things. As long as Ray knows it’s between them, which he does.

“Eh… we’ll bring her in when we need to. Coroner tells me we should expect some news soon. Aaklya wants to see for herself.”

“Hey – speaking of Aaklya...” Maoro glances at the little sticky note dangling from his PC monitor.

“Got something to run by you. Firoza – she’s one of my investigators, you met her last year –”

“– Yeah, yeah, tall as hell?”

“– I – well, you’re one to talk. She came in earlier today... see if we can collaborate with your cyber crimes group.”

“Oh – okay. I’ll... run it by Aaklya. What’s the case?”

Maoro sighs. “It’s this – the McGrier case got... leaked, somehow.”

“ _Leaked?_ What, like – online? Like a movie plot leak?” Laughs a little.

Maoro twirls noodles around his sticks until they form a near-impenetrable ball. “Not... online, as far as we know. But somebody wanted the case files and they got them.”

“Think it’s the same guy who killed the man?”

Maoro takes a pause. Uses the free ends of his laden chopsticks to poke at the remnants of the egg, not really that hungry anymore. “Possibly. But Firoza said your division’s better staffed than ours, which I’m guessing it is?”

“Yeah, they – _Shane!_ I need the Callister witnesses on my desk by three, alright? Yeah, they got some good federal grants after that whole Weyerhaeuser thing last year. Should be fine. I’ll let her know.” 

“Right.” Maoro starts to pace. His door flings open; Firoza, a little flustered. She’s about to speak. He raises a hand, motions her to take a seat; he’s still on a call. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Hey, listen – I have to –”

“ – Yeah, me too. See you later.”

“Yup.”

Firoza still standing. He drops his phone on the desk, clasps hands together. “What’s up?”

“Take it you haven’t seen the news?”

“Not… currently, no.”

“There’s been a… a riot. At Oregon State.”

His hands fall to his sides. “What?”

She starts to pace across him now, phone in hand. Voice strained and brows crossed. “Happened – just now, maybe twenty minutes ago. My friend barely made it out alive. Prison guards got into some kind of – gunfight, he said something about bombs…”

“Sl-slow down, your friend, this is the guard onsite, who you’re conferring with on the Vesuvius names?” He circles around the desk to come up next to her. “Where is he now?”

“The nearest ER.” Her eyes water a little. He’s never seen her like this.

“Goddammit. We should go see him.” He pockets his keys from the desk and begins a row of clicks to turn off his PC.

She looks to him with a bit of hope. “That alright?”

“He was on that rotation because of us.”

“Because of me,” she corrects, eyes heavy. “He’ll be alright. But he sent me this.” She pulls up a document on her phone. Blazing white screen slaps Maoro in the face. He scans it. It’s a list of names with numbers next to them. They look like inmate designations. A short list.

“These are – the, uh – the inmates who never made it out. Caught on the outskirts, or still in the prison. It’s not a final list, but…”

Maoro knows why he’s being shown this. He scans the list for someone.

“No Nathan Prescott.” Mouth dry.

“No Vaas Shyde either.”

He’s looking down as he hands the phone back to her. Turns to the back wall of his office. Steady walk to his desk, both hands on it. Head bowed and bottom lip locked in teeth, he reigns in much of what he wants to yell out, resigning instead to a single hiss of fury.

“Fuck.”

“So – what’s our plan here?”

Finger tapping on the aged wood. He nods to himself. Hands off the desk now. Circles back around and begins pulling on his coat.

“I’ll try to get to the DA. Ramsey’s good for it. Put out Prescott and Shyde on the APB. Suspects in an ongoing case, should be easy to get it through.”

“McGrier case is gonna go public at this rate.” Firoza’s arms are crossed, watching him get ready. “APB firewall is a joke. And the tabloids aren’t cold yet. We okay with that?”

“Not a concern. What we need to think about is Vonn.”

“He’s still MIA. Hasn’t been home in three days. I arranged for rotations to his place, his work – gonna check in with one of his friends too.”

Maoro’s hands fly up. “He’s a person of interest. Why would he disappear now? Why would this riot happen now?”

“I don’t know, Vic.”

He takes a pause. Realizes he’s ranting a bit. She’s distressed. She’s trying to keep it together. So should he.

“Sorry. Aaron’s friend? This a new lead?”

She shrugs. “Used to work with him. Sounded like they were close when I talked to her. Also sounded like she doesn’t know where he is either, but…”

“But you don’t buy it.”

“Not a fan of conjecture. I’ll speak with her again soon.”

“Really? I love conjecture.” He talks into his chest, hammering away on his phone screen. A text. His big, calloused fingers aren’t too good for typing.

“Jesus. Have you looked outside...?”

“What?” Maoro’s not listening. Finishing a hurried text. Looks up, pocketing his phone, ready to go. “Look where?”

Firoza nods her head toward the window. Arms still crossed, but she steps closer to it. Mesmerized. Maoro’s gaze follows suit.

“It’s snowing.”

They both approach the window a bit. Both in a trance. For a second, all is forgotten.

“Doesn’t look like snow. Does it?”

Firoza goes up to the glass and wrenches the old handle down, swinging it open. A resolute creak sings of how old the office is. Sticks her hand out until some falls in. She rubs it around. Dark, dusty; staining skin.

“It’s... ash.”

Maoro’s done with his curiosity. There’s work to finish. The weather could wait. He’s leaning back toward the door.

“Ash. That’s... new.”

“Yeah.” She turns on her heels too, still staring at her palm. Watching the charcoal grey dig into her lines. She’s oddly aware of its weight. Unwilling to wash it off. “Yeah, weird. Let’s go.”

An act of goodwill. Going to see an informant injured in these riots – that’s the decent thing to do. Maoro wants to make the right choices. As he holds the door open for Firoza, he takes one last look out the window. It’s beyond unfathomable.

Ashes.

The very names they’d come to learn, connected to McGrier, are names missing from Firoza’s list. The very case Maxine had helped solve, all those years ago – the same case, brought up by Ray. The same perpetrator, who shot a girl in a bathroom – now roaming free. What else would transpire, unprecedented in its relevance? Maoro doesn’t like seeing Maxine’s face at the center of it all. It’s an emotional response. A simulation of his worst fears.

No... it isn’t. He knows this. It’s a scenario he’d prefer to dread. Prefer that, to the truth. The bodies of McGrier and the Unnamed, hanging over him, dripping blood – counting time. Blood would run dry.

_You’re out of bleach._

The door slams shut behind them, the food left unfinished and going cold, the light of a strange and greying sky washing the floor and walls of an empty office, ashes tumbling past an open window. Collecting on the sill.

*

“Okay. Okay… okay…”

Her breath is slow. Heavy. Deliberate. Warren’s grip on her hand is firm – but not too much. In case she wants to pull away. She doesn’t. Not yet. She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s wondering who she might be, after all. Some tangible solace goes a long way when you’ve no ground to stand on.

“I know it’s a lot.” Warren’s next to her on the couch. Speaking softly. “I know. But it’s true.”

She brings her own hand up into view. Five fingers. Clean. Total control of her muscles. Every twitch and bend of bones, she knows and commands. It’s an ordinary hand. By any stretch of imagination, it couldn’t possibly be anything else.

“Time… tur-turning back time. Time travel.” Saying it doesn’t make it any less ludicrous. To think Warren would invent this is even more outlandish. “Me. I can… I can really do that?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, you could. I don’t know if you still can… you haven’t. Ever since… you… used that photo. But yeah, you could… at one point… turn back time. First happened at Blackwell, during the – you know, that whole week. You – didn’t know where you got that power from, or why… you – you said you’d stopped asking.”

She shakes her head. What’s she saying no to? She isn’t sure. Just a primal response.

“Are you feeling okay?”

No answer. She slowly pulls her hand out of his. Is this a sign of strength, or withdrawal? He hates not knowing.

She’s rubbing one hand with another. Feeling them both. It’s absolutely unbelievable. Then why does it sound familiar?

“Wanna say something, Max? You’re scaring me here.” He says it with a little smile to ease the tension.

She doesn’t want to say something. She doesn’t know if she can. Or should. Intently rubbing her hands like she’ll lose them if she stops.

The delivery was short. Warren didn’t beat around any bushes. Explained everything. Brought her inside. Explained some more. Her questions became less and less frequent. Soon, she was just listening. And now she’s not speaking.

The tube-lit walls and grimy tiles of the bathroom are visible in flashes. The figures by the door aren’t. She knows who they are, at some threshold of cognition. She’s also avoiding their faces, their names. Their voices. And the memories of them, tied to so many others. The suppression of one weights on cords and strands leading to the rest. Heavier than they look. She can feel them weighing down, the abyss so carefully built before, now haphazard and smattered with broken light among the fog. She can see.

Bits of voices, places like clippings of a newspaper – out of context, out of time. It can come together if she wants it to. But does she?

Maxine staggers to her feet. Walks around the coffee table. Across the room. Up to the aquarium. Crouches down to see the fish, hover as they do, zipping away from the glass as she moves in close. Gentle fingers on the surface. Easily penetrable, if she pushes hard enough. The water easily felt, if this thin wall breaks. But how much would spill if the barrier came down? Would she drown?

The undercurrent is most familiar of them all. The sinew of consistent continuity binding all this, holding it in shadow. She refuses to touch it. It’s too strong. She knows what it is.

She turns to face him. Finally. Her face is unreadable at first. But he sees fear. And grief. And even hope. Overwhelming to look at. He stands his ground. One of them should be strong.

“So… why… um….” Her voice shakes. Struggling to be any louder than a whisper. Even so, she’s astounded she can do this at all, without having another attack. The vision was a brick to the face – a nosebleed, appropriate. But it’s cleared a few walls. Made the way inward easier to see. Her hands prickle, her feet are numb – every passing moment spent away from her self-imposed exile, a perilous choice. But this strength is new – and it feels old.

“Why did the, uh… other me? The other Max? God, that’s… weird. To say.” She bites her lip and wrenches her gaze away from him, out through the glass balcony doors, into the ashfall beyond.

“Did she – what did she look like?”

Warren’s stumped. Not the question he’d expected. Maybe even a stupid question, all things considered. But he’s the one who wanted to know what color the Bleed was – so who is he to judge?

“Oh – well, she, uh… she looked – like you. Kinda. Hair was longer… the way you used to keep it? But a… little longer than that, even… And she wore glasses. And different kind of clothes, I guess. But she looked like you.”

“Sound like me too?” She doesn’t need to ask this. She’s already heard her voice through the door. But maybe Warren can help her get through the absurdity of it all, if he confirms what she knows.

“Yeah. Same – same age, too, I’d guess.”

“Hmm.” Her arms are crossed, cradling elbows, as she stands. Not in a mood to sit down. He wants to ask about the state of her arm – the cast and sling are on, but she’s got decent maneuverability. Is it that much better already? No… probably painkillers. He’d have to talk to her about that later. Pushes it down.

“I asked her why she came,” he begins slowly. Her eyes perk up for the first time in what feels like days.

“Yeah… she… wouldn’t – she didn’t say. But she… I guess, she showed me.”

He’s already gone over this. They’d spent a while out on the balcony, talking. He’s not sure how much of it Maxine has even processed. How much she’s already locked away, refusing to look at, like she’d done with so many other things.

“Her world… you – you went there. You were there.”

“Yeah. Freaked me the hell out. I – Christ, Max… I don’t even know if it’s real. I – I mean, I do. I know it is. It makes sense. I walked out of my room… and into this – it’s not really a house… more like a – fuck it. It’s where she lives. It was _not our world._ I’m just – I can’t stop shaking, Max. This is – it’s more than incredible, it’s a fucking _miracle._ I knew it was–” He stops. There’s something more to be said. Something specific. But maybe this isn’t the time. Might be too much to put on her at once.

“Are you okay? If you – I dunno, do you need to throw up?” It’s a genuine question. He’s befuddled to the point of letting out a laugh – but he does consider it. Maybe he does. She’s watching him intently. Even through all of this.

“I’ll be alright. If you – need to go use the…” She finishes by pointing to the washroom by the kitchen. He sighs. Feels like smiling, but doesn’t.

“Nah. I’m fine. I’m good, Max. Just – it’s a lot. For me. Can’t imagine… for you…” Trails off. There’s more if she’s ready for it. An entire book’s worth, in fact. A diary, packed with her own writing, and his. Back in his bedroom. He doesn’t bring it up. Later.

“When… you were there… in her world. In – Max – _my_ world… okay, listen, she’s – we’ve got to call her something else.”

He does actually crack a smile now. “Other than Max?”

“Yeah.” She’s tense. The presence of a second Max – in the same place as her – is more than a little troubling. And maybe fantastic. Especially if what Warren said about the choice this other person made, is true in any regard…

“How about – Baymax?”

Her mouth falls open into indignance. Unfurls her arms in fury. “Wha- that’s _not_ funny – I – seriously, Warren, you just – _are you –_ ”

“Woah, woah – I just – I meant the movie!” He stands up to calm her down. “The – the Disney movie, Big Hero Six?”

“Big – what?”

“Baymax is a… it’s from that movie. I didn’t – I wasn’t… didn’t mean that. Come on.”

Her pale face flushes harder than he’d seen in years. Her nose, even more so. She blinks rapidly, brings her hands together. Telltale signs of apologetic guilt. He’d missed even that. He misses more than he even knows.

“Shit – sorry, of course you wouldn’t… I’m sorry. Being stupid… I – I know the movie. I know. We… saw it together… right?”

“Yeah! Yeah, what was it – two years ago?” He’s amazed she remembers it. Even Warren never really knew how much she’d buried. But she remembers their time. It wasn’t something she had to hide away. The elation is too strong to hide. He’s beaming.

“Christmas.” Even Maxine breaks a little smile. “Miriam and Jun were here. And Stella.”

He bites down the nervous stump in his belly. “Yeah. Yeah, that was a… good day. You picked the movie, too. I wanted to see Close Encounters.”

“You’ve seen it a hundred times. I liked Big Hero Six.”

“I did too, I’m just sayin’ – a classic is a classic.”

“That movie put me to sleep!”

“Because you weren’t _watching!_ You gotta pay attention to the little details– _”_

“You know what’s an _actual_ classic?”

“Final Fantasy, Spirits Within?”

Her mouth is agape; she shuts it briskly. “I – was _gonna_ say, Rashomon.”

“No, you weren’t!” He squints in feigned disbelief. Chuckling. She laughs too. A quiet buzz from her pocket – phone ringing. She ignores it. Shakes her head with a smile, looking away again. The ash is still falling. A moment’s peace washing away with it. Her smile fades. The room is quiet again, and they’re standing with each other, watching the sky.

“What the hell is happening, Warren?” She asks, gaze locked where it is. A small shudder in her voice. Cheeks twitching. Elbows gripped tighter. “I’m… I…”

“Hey. Hey. Easy.” He steps around the coffee table and pulls her in for the best hug he can muster. His chin rests easily on her head. He’s not expecting her to hug him back. He’s prepared for her to push away, even.

“Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. You hear me, Max? _Nothing._ ”

He’s surprised when her good arm unfurls to wrap around his back. Pulling him in closer. Reminds him all too much of a hug he’d received not too long ago, not too many steps away – from another Max, from another world. Was that the same person he’s holding now?

“I’m not gonna cry again.” She giggles into his shirt.

“I’ve heard that before.” He sways a bit. He knows she’s fond of it. Maybe that’s what makes her pull away, finally. Maybe it was too close to home, too fast. Or maybe it’s the phone, still buzzing in her pocket. They release slowly, eyes averted, chancing glances at each other. She reaches for the phone.

“I – sorry, this might be…” Pulls it out. Checks the name. “I… have to take this. It’s important.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He steps back as she answers.

“Hello. Ye- yes. I’m in… at a friend’s – why? … Oh. Okay. I’m kind of – can this wait? I - … okay. I’ll… be right there.”

Hangs up. She pockets it roughly.

“What’s up?”

She looks at him, a curious expression. Brows crossed tensely; eyes excited.

“That was… the lieutenant. They want me to come down again. For questioning.”

He throws up his hands. “You were _just_ there. Today.”

“They know who it is.”

Silence. Warren’s hands come down to his sides.

“They know whose body they found at my place. They found out who it is.”

“Oh. Shit. Okay.”

She’s got the same guilty look again. “I have to know. It’s what started this fucking week – I know you had plans – I – maybe this won’t take long –”

But he’s pocketed his phone. His wallet. Car keys. Walks past her and grabs a jacket from the coat rack in the hall.

“Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

Nothing could’ve been more relieving. Smiles again. She follows him to the door, opens it before he’s got his shoes on.

“Hey – Warren?”

“Hmm?”

Max picks up something off the ground. Turns around, holding it. It’s a tinfoil-wrapped tray.

“Someone left it here…”

“It smells good.” She hands it to him. Warren unwraps the foil. Yellow squares peeking out.

“Lemon… bars…”

It dawns on him, as it does on her. He jumps past her and out in the hall. Looks both ways. Empty.

“Kate?” She voices it for him. “Wasn’t she on her way here? Kate left this?” She’s confused. Daunting though it may have seemed at the time, Max was looking forward to seeing her. Now she’s holding this tray, dropped off like a cold token at Warren’s door. No note. No sign of her.

“Yeah… she said she was bringing that for dinner. Why’d she leave?” He’s annoyed. He didn’t ask her to deliver dessert. He wanted her company. Pulls out his phone to text her. But Max gives him an answer.

“You think she… heard us? Talking?”

Nervous look in his eyes. He finds her gaze – she’s tense too.

“How – how much did she… did you hear anything? Any knocks, or…?”

Shakes her head. “Did she call you? Or text?”

“No. Why did she…?”

It wasn’t impossible. Kate could’ve called Warren if they hadn’t heard her knock. But she didn’t. If anyone had heard them talk about this – it could be bad. Best case scenario, they’re written off as insane. But Kate… Kate knows them. She knows they’re both sane. How much did she actually hear? Enough to leave without a word?

“Warren… I think she heard us.”

*

_Did Aaron contact you at all?_

The text leers at her, thirty seconds old. She’s already read it. Camille slides the phone into her desk, one elbow placed on top, feigning a look of deep interest for the teacher at the front of the class.

“So with this experiment, we know that the specific gravity of pyrite is between four-point-nine…”

Taps out a response with one finger.

_No can’t talk I’m in class_

Something isn’t right here. Len isn’t one to be proactive about a friend’s whereabouts. Aaron isn’t one to be so quiet. Camille knows they’re both good friends. And besides, Aaron _has_ been quiet… for days now. Ever since he quit.

_Why is something wrong ?_

“Now who can tell me what type of fracture pyrite would have? Yes, Matt…”

He hasn’t replied. Hasn’t even typed anything. He’s seen it, though. Pisses her off. Why do people do that?

“And… who wants to describe the… the… the, luster? Of pyrite? Camille, we haven’t heard from you yet.”

_??_

_Len? Answer pls I’m worried_

She takes a breath. He saw that one too. Still no typing. That’s truly beyond annoying. No – this wouldn’t do. She raises her hand. A washroom break. Looks up to find everyone staring. And snickering.

“Well, I _am_ asking you, Camille.” The teacher’s annoyed face is at the center of it all. “But thank you for putting up your hand… as we should all do when speaking in class… so, what’s your answer, Camille?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

Someone laughs in the back, followed by a few others. She doesn’t care. “It’s an emergency.”

“You should’ve gone during your lunch period,” he states, chin sinking down into his neck by the sheer weight of his disapproval. “I’m afraid I need your undivided attention, just like the rest of your fellow–”

“No, it’s an emergency. Sorry.” She pushes out of her desk. Leaves her stuff where it is, and walks down the classroom to the door.

“You – young lady, I did not grant you –”

Door slams shut behind her. Okay, now she can text. Or even call. She’s walking fast. Checks the phone again – he’s replied.

_Can you call? Ask to go to the bathroom or something_

That’s funny. She’s out in the stairwell now. Goes down a flight. She needs some fresh air. Dials him on the way. He picks up as soon as it rings.

“Hey.” Len’s voice is calm, as it always is – and she’s not sure if it should be.

“What’s going on with Aaron?” She’s on the bottom floor now. Pushes the back door open and out into the cool air. School’s front lawn is empty, parking lot beyond dotted with faculty hatchbacks. Grass is wet – as it always is. Tall surveillance pole holds up four conspicuous cameras, staring down at her as she passes it. Sky looks… odd. Unnatural.

“I was gonna ask you. When did you see him last?” Len is more curt than usual, though.

“Uh… at his concert. Like – four days ago? You were there too. Why? When did _you_ see him last?” She’s at the edge of the lot now, her back to the school.

“Same day. Hasn’t responded since. I checked his place, his roommates said he just packed and left.”

She’s more than worried now. “Packed? Like, he ran away or something?”

“Don’t know. His phone’s off. He really didn’t tell you anything?”

“No! Nothing. I’ve, like – texted him so many times already. I thought he’s pissed off or something.”

Len’s audible breathing is steady, but his lack of response puts her on edge.

“You think it’s about that cop?”

“I’m thinkin’, yeah.” He sounds angry.

“Did he get arrested or something?”

“I… don’t know.”

“The cop was telling my manager how Aaron stole something? You know if that’s true, or, like…?”

“I – don’t know about that. But I’ll find out. Thanks, Cam.”

“Yeah, just let me know whenever–” Hangs up. That’s rude. But she lets it slide. He’s probably just worked up. Only now, while she browses her last texts to Aaron, does she notice something peculiar. It falls onto her screen – large, flaky. She thinks for a moment to be an insect – but it’s just… a crumbled chunk. Of something. It turns to dust on impact.

Her eyes follow down her arms – coated with the same stuff. On the street around her feet, on the grass beyond. Falling from the sky. She shields her eyes, looking up. Silent, gentle, windless – like snow. But she knows it’s not. It can’t be.

Turns on her camera with a swift few taps. Camille records the anomaly, turning on spot. Zooms in on the ground to capture the flakes up close. They’re grey… ashen in color. She can’t figure out what they could be. Can’t put it together. But it’s damn curious. She nearly forgets about Aaron.

Camera turns back to the school to catch a group of people walking toward her. She panics, tucks the phone away, scrambling to tap it off. It’s the principal. And two police officers.

“Excuse me? Camille? Camille Gardner?”

Why are there cops here? Because she left the classroom without permission? That’s absolutely absurd. But she doesn’t put it past them. She stands her ground. Afraid.

“Yeah?”

The principal comes to a halt a few feet away, arms on his hips. Doesn’t take note of the precipitation at all. She finds that incredibly dull. These people are so dull. Who put them in charge of a school?

“What are you doing out here, Camille? You should be in class.”

“I needed some air.”

He nods. She’s expecting detention. But she still can’t really explain the two policewomen behind him. Only then does she notice that one of them has her backpack.

“Is that my stuff?” Bold. She’s impressed with herself.

“Yes, we couldn’t find you in class so we had to pack up for you,” the principal explains. “These – these officers want to have a word with you.”

He steps aside and lets them approach. The smaller of the two – friendlier – brings her the bag. “Camille, right? Hope I got everything in there. I checked inside the desk too.”

“… Thanks.” She takes it with caution.

“Now, I want you to know, you’re not in trouble,” she continues, bending down to Camille’s height. “But we need you to accompany us. We’re – going to go to a hospital.”

Her stomach plummets. She pulls the bag onto her shoulders. “Wh-why? What hospital? Is someone – is my mom hurt?”

“Camille! Your mom – your mom’s not hurt. She’s fine. Your mom is perfectly fine. Nothing happened, this isn’t about her. But you’re needed there. I’ll explain on the way, okay?”

She pulls out a friendly hand. A big smile. Camille doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t take it.

“Let’s not make this hard, kid.” The cop behind her grunts. “We just need your cooperation, that’s all. Like she said, you’re not in trouble.”

“So what’s this about, then?” She’s aware of the palpable fear in her voice. Probably on her face too. For a fleeting moment, she thinks of Aaron – did they find him? Dead, in a ditch, somewhere? Do they need her to identify his body? No… that makes no sense. Absolutely no sense. She calms herself. Kicks the image out of her mind.

The good cop loses her graceful approach, stands up straight. Not threatening, but not trying to be friendly either.

“It’s about your father, Camille.”

She’s not sure she heard it right.

“My father’s dead.”

“Yes – we know. Please, come with us. You’ll be back here before the end of the school day. Promise.”

Take no promises from police. Camille’s grown up with that. But this is a bit too much to avoid. Are they just saying whatever shit they think will get her to go with them? No… that’s too bizarre. Isn’t it?

She also knows she can’t refuse. It’s sinking in. And so she does follow. Leaving the principal to slap ash off his suit as he walks back inside, she crunches over grass to the front of the school. Whatever this was, she’d have to give it her time. No point in resisting, especially since she knows nothing of it. The mention of her father isn’t reassuring. She hasn’t thought about that face in a while. No… she did bring him up in conversation… days ago.

With Aaron. She remembers the bear.

“Hey, you – wanna listen to anything? Any radio stations you like?”

The ashfall is thicker now. She pulls her stare from the window, the buildings and people and poles flying by, the rumble of the seat, to look at the front of the car.

“Uh… no. I’m good.”

“Alright. So – when I tell you, Camille, I want you to be calm, alright? We’re going to the mortuary at St. Maddison’s. You know what a mortuary is?”

Her breathing grows shallow. She blinks, trying to keep her voice stable. “Yeah.”

“Now, I know your father passed three years ago. But something’s come up, and we think you can help.”

“H-help with what?”

The woman turns, arm on the seat, while her companion drives. Turns to look at her directly.

“I don’t want you to be scared, alright? But… police found a dead man’s body a few days ago. It’s at the morgue. We want you to tell us if you can recognize it.”

“Wha-!?” She’s shaking her head. Heart pounding against the seatbelt. “Why would I recognize a body!? Whose is it?”

The woman turns away, seemingly out of patience. “Can’t make any statements about that yet. We just need your cooperation.”

She sounds just like her partner. Any friendly veil, gone. Might’ve been fleeting, but Camille misses it already.

*

“Sir? The girl’s here.”

Two fingers furiously tapping on his elbow. He looks up from his chair to see two policewomen walking down from the elevator. A teenager is with them. With a backpack. She’s just a kid. He knew this already. But it doesn’t make it easier.

He walks up to greet them, stopping them by the door.

“Camille?” She’s half his height, maybe a little less. He doesn’t want to look intimidating. But he’s not one to crouch down, either.

“I’m… Raymond. I’m the lieutenant. Did… the officers tell you why you’re here?”

No response. The girl glares at him. She’s afraid.

“We tried to contact your mother, but… she refused to cooperate. So for now… we’ll need your help with something.”

Camille backs away a bit. Very scared now. She glances at the door behind Ray – ajar. Fluorescent strip of light spills out of the crack, inking his frame as he stands in it. She doesn’t trust him.

“Hey, kiddo.” The officer’s friendly guise is back. “I know this is scary, but you’re _not in trouble._ Alright? We just wanna clear something up.”

“Clear _what_ up?” Camille finally snaps, spilling out her fear as rage. “Why won’t any of you tell me what’s going on? I wanna talk to my mom!”

She pulls out her phone, half-expecting them to yank it from her hands. But they don’t. They just stand and watch as she dials, waiting for an answer.

None.

“Why isn’t she picking up? What did you people do!?”

Ray’s already had enough. “Jesus. This is why I – listen, kid, it’s your dad. Your dad’s in there.” He jabs at the door. “At least – we think it is. We need someone who knew him well, to identify him. We tried his old friends, his parents, and your mother. Nobody’s interested in coming down. You’re the last one here.”

He’s hoping the broken lies will paint a picture. Camille’s mother was the only other person they’d found, remotely still linked to the corpse in the room behind him.

“My dad died three years ago,” she states, eyes wide in disbelief. In anger. “We _buried_ him. I was at his fucking funeral. Are you kidding!?”

“Open casket?” One of the officers asks casually.

“Yes!” Her response is instinctive – she wants to stay on top of this. But it’s a lie. It was very much closed. But the alternative is too absurd to entertain. Too bizarre to even think about.

“No,” Ray corrects her. “No, it wasn’t. I looked it up. I know your father passed, Camille. I read his obituary. I know this is strange. But right now – right now, there’s someone in there who really couldn’t be anyone else. Unless your dad had a twin. You understand?”

“No,” she stammers. “No, I don’t. You don’t make any fucking sense.”

“To hell with this.” Ray slaps the door and it swings open. “Told you this was a bad idea. Just wait for the dental record. Jesus. Damn kids…”

He walks inside, leaving her with the two women. They seem disappointed.

“Alright – let’s drive you back to school.”

“Wait.” Camille looks on through the open door. It’s a morgue. She’s seen enough of these in shows and movies. She can hear Ray talking inside. See him standing over a table…

“… How soon? You’ll have to tell the Deputy when she comes down. Records were our best bet anyway, this just would’ve helped a lot…”

His disappointment was real. So were his feeble attempts to connect with her. What else could be real in that room? What would she regret, if she left without ever having looked, after coming this close?

Against any reason, she walks in. The officers don’t stop her. She walks in, and it’s colder in here. The lights are bleak. Ray hasn’t noticed her. But someone else – the man he’s speaking to – nods in her direction. The lieutenant spins around. His glare softens as she approaches.

He’s now the only thing between her, and the face of the corpse on the table behind him. She’s terrified. Silent. And determined. He’s suddenly reluctant to let her see.

“Let me see,” she demands. And so he steps aside.

The body, the Unnamed – the shape in the darkness of Max’s apartment, the catalyst of it all – lies under glaring light, every crevice of his face exposed. Camille screams, both hands over her mouth. Staggers back. The officers hurry inside. They know Ray can’t handle this.

“Hey, kiddo – relax, alright? It’s okay. Just breathe. We’re here. Just breathe.”

Camille wishes they’d shut up. Wishes they’d all shut up and leave. She wants to be alone here. With this corpse. Unmistakable, undeniable – there could be no other answer. Impossible.

“Camille, could you tell us who this is?” Ray’s got no patience. One of his officers shoots him a glare. He ignores it. Lowers his voice to what he hopes is a softer tone.

“Camille? I know this is hard for you. But we need–”

She’s nodding. Frantically. She stumbles to the closed lockers to her left, hits them and slides down to the floor. Ray’s lucky. Even through all this, she answers. Through both hands, she says something inaudible.

“That a yes?” Ray asks the woman trying to comfort the girl. She’s crouched next to her. Speaking softly. Camille removes her hands. Lip trembling. Looks up at Ray with terrified eyes. Watering. But as quickly as she does, she pulls away. He only wants answers. He doesn't want their repercussions. Nodding slowly, she wrenches it out from her, against every line of logic claiming it could be anyone, could be a trick of the light, or just some elaborate joke. 

“That’s my dad."

And she looks up again, with deliberate force. Now that it's out, she's less afraid. Her voice is a trembling whisper. "Tell me how. Tell me how that's my fucking dad." 

Ray wants to. He wants to be able to comfort her, to make her feel safe. To explain to her how her father - buried for three years - is on this table, clearly having died only days ago. He wants to do things he knows he can’t. And so he turns away. She’s in better hands, anyway. They’ll take her back to school. She’ll never see him again. He looks instead on the visage of this man. Her father. Now he’s got a name to put on the face. Finally, an answer, among this incredulous mess.

Camille descends into quiet sobs behind him, and he fumbles for his phone. Opens a text chat labeled “Vic”. Scrolls up. Where… where… Here.

_Maxine’s number, like you asked. Save it_

He hadn’t. He doesn’t want to save it. He doesn’t know why. But the number, he does dial. And listens to the steady ringing hum, the coroner watching him, his eyes scanning the tube-lit canyons and valleys of this dead man’s preserved face. He’s learned it all too well. 


	8. Infallible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean and Nathan come to terms with their situation. Max and Warren learn what it's like to have each other once again - in the best way they can, at the moment. Robbie confronts David Madsen about the secrets of Arcadia Bay. Firoza meets Maria Flores for an unexpected conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life is crazy. But I haven't forgotten about this little project and I hope I still have your interest :3

“This is you boys. Get out.”

The back of the truck swings open. Loud, resolute clang and wretched rusty screech; the road they’ve been on is now in sight. Empty and vast. Smell of the forest wafting in. Sean knows this smell. He never thought he’d feel it again.

“Come on.” He gets to his feet and stumbles out. Slaps Nathan on the shoulder, who follows suit without a word. Nathan might still believe this is a dream. The open sky without leering walls, the ground beneath him trodden by the free – the smell of the air, something new and forgotten. His dull prison shoes slam into smooth asphalt. They both turn to the truck. A few inmates yet to get off.

“Catch.” The big one sitting at the front of the truck tosses them two plastic bags, from a pile next to him, shrinking with every drop-off. They’re clothes. Civilian clothes. Nothing special – a shirt, some pants, and socks. No underwear.

“There’s some cash in there for ya. Thank Yinna when you sleep.”

Sean says nothing. Nathan knows better than to open his mouth – the most reassuring thought is Vaas still in prison, held back by his wound. Back behind bars, where he belongs.

 _Don’t I?_ Nathan hears the obvious question. He doesn’t belong wherever he is now, does he? Not by a stretch. Next to Sean Diaz, of all people…

“Ya’ll know how to get to Cicada Bay from here?” One of the younger escapees had taken a liking to Sean. Asks with an air of concern.

“We’ll figure it out.” Sean doesn’t bother correcting him. “Where did you say the gas station was?” Turns to the big man at the front. 

“Cut through the trees. Keep the sun behind you. Should find the road again.” He jabs a full four fingers to his left, pointing through the truck’s walls. “Follow that north. You’ll see it. Wanna be quick though, it’ll be dark in a bit.” He crouches his head down to see the bit of sky through the open gate. “One hell of a view. Alright, we’re clear. Close up.”

Sean helps push the door back up. Latches into place. The stragglers don’t say goodbye. Sean doesn’t thank them. The truck rumbles back to life and speeds off, leaving them on barren road. The impending quiet is unnerving – ethereal.

The road dissolves on one side into dense woods – chirping birds and rustling branches bringing on the end of day, dying starlight from the horizon before them setting ablaze the leaves in a dance of orange and red. On the other, the road descends into the open sea. Sean’s eyes fix on the water – free, endless, so incredibly deep. His feet move across the road. To the barrier, where his hands grasp the cold steel and for the briefest of moments, he longs to jump. To dive away from this world, down and out to a place where no one could reach – a place that may indeed have peace. His eyes follow the sparkling water up to the lower belt of the sky – the sun knocks his eyes away, back down to his feet, where hard road beneath his tattered shoes reminds him he’s not afloat. He must walk.

“Hey.”

He’d forgotten about Nathan, in just a few seconds. So overwhelming it was to stand free. To be outside the prison walls he’d so willingly accepted.

“Hey, Diaz.”

He turns. Nathan’s still in the middle of the road. No cars in sight. Looking at him with a confused face.

“What are we doing?”

Valid question. Nathan hadn’t asked on the trip here. Sean hadn’t explained. But he knows the questions would come. He walks across the road, toward the trees. Past Nathan.

“Let’s go. We gotta get through the woods before nightfall.”

“ _Do we?_ ” Nathan follows, but not without resistance in his eyes. Sean ignores it, faces forward. He’ll answer if Nathan asks.

“Yeah.” The grass below is dry, first leaves of autumn setting the ground ablaze as they crunch under feet. Squirrels dart out of their path and the rustle of leaves grows louder, the ocean’s crashing waves behind them, quieter. Twigs and brambles make for difficult steps, dry broken branches clawing at their pants and shoes, snapping against their strength. Sun still stretching miles into the thicket. Impenetrable sea of trunks, growing ever denser, before them. How reliable were these directions?

“Where are we going?” Nathan pushes, walking slightly behind.

“Gas station.” Sean’s keeping an eye out for anything – everything. Shelters? Berries? Freshwater stream? Somewhere to wash his feet would be nice. Some new shoes would be amazing. His toes are sticky, and hot, and claustrophobic. But the forest floor isn’t too safe for bare feet.

“No shit,” Nathan hisses. “Where are we _going,_ Diaz?”

Nathan knows. He heard Sean say it when they broke out. He wants to know why. Sean heaves a sigh. Adjusts the strap of his eyepatch – it’s digging into the back of his ear again. Been happening a lot lately, out of nowhere…

“Arcadia Bay.”

“Yeah?” Nathan’s heart beats faster. Mouth a little dryer, as he gulps. “And why? What’s it got to do with you?”

“My brother’s missing.”

A fallen tree blocks their path. Keep the sun behind them – just go around, and come back to the straight path again. Shouldn’t be too hard. Sean reroutes. Nathan follows, seething.

“Your brother’s from Arcadia Bay? Are you?” Nathan would’ve remembered Sean. The townsfolk weren’t too diverse in his time. Except for at Blackwell. The thought – the name – makes him shudder. Gives his head a violent shake. Sean glances behind him, eyebrow raised. Says nothing. Nathan’s looking at his feet all of a sudden.

“No.”

Sean expects a new barrage of questions. But all he hears is the crunching of leaves, twigs snapping and birds of dusk singing above, echoes in the gentle orange wind. A chill brushes his skin. Goosebumps against the cold, tired feet and shoulders heavy, the feel and smell of the woods around him – all of this is all too familiar. Not a sight he’d ever dreamed of seeing again. Half-expecting a young Daniel to prance by his side. There was a dog too… what did they name the dog?

“So why’d you–” Nathan speaks up again. Momentary silence pushed out. “Why – why’d you – why’d you shoot Vaas? How’d you get there?”

He wanted to ask “why’d you save me?” but didn’t like how that sounded. He doesn’t know Sean Diaz. Not someone he’d open up to. He hasn’t opened up to anyone in years. Who was the last? Who on this great earth?

“Mmmgh.” A grunt slips out, fist clenched. Bites his lip and looks away again. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Sean’s half in mind to ask him if he’s alright, but – thinks better of it. He doesn’t know Nathan Prescott. Not someone he’d show concern for. Then again… you did save the man’s life, he tells himself.

“Vaas was killing you, wasn’t he?”

“So? What’s it to you?” Nathan rubs his arms. Getting cold for him. Sean knows how to deal with it. Although a jacket would be nice. Very nice.

“I need you alive.”

“Fucking _why,_ Diaz? Give me a straight answer!” He snaps; long overdue. Sean’s not surprised. He knows he’s being withdrawn. Maybe on purpose.

“I need you to help me find my brother.”

“… The _fuck_ do I know where your brother is!? I _TOLD YOU-_ ”

“Keep your voice down.” 

Nathan feels an old familiar sting of rage. Neck twitches. Diaz doesn’t know about him that much, does he? But he bites it down. He needs his meds. Doesn’t want them. He needs them. He hates that he needs them.

“Okay.” He’s breathing heavy to keep it down, watching the passing leaves by his footsteps as they walk onward into thicker trees. The sun is lighter now. The woods quieter still.

“Okay. Answer the question then.”

Sean sighs again. “Your dad’s Sean Prescott, right? Owns Pan Estates and the Prescott Foundation?”

“How the fuck did you know?” Nathan’s voice quivers when it gets lower.

“I made a phone call. After our little talk back at the prison.” Sean sees a jump coming. The forest floor gives away to a small drop. Nathan hasn’t seen it. He gapes when Sean jumps out of sight.

“Watch your step,” his voice calls from a few feet below, thudding into bone-dry twigs and kicking up dust. He’s got a feeling Nathan isn’t much of a hiker. Keeps going. The man can take care of himself. Eventually hears Nathan stumble and crash; an audible “oof” before he gets to his feet and jogs over to Sean. Still maintaining distance.

“And!?”

“My brother… went to Arcadia Bay… a few weeks ago. For some internship program. Funded by your dad’s company. He stopped responding to our family after getting there.”

“So you think he’s missing? And what – I somehow know where he is? Are you fucking stupid, Diaz?’

“You know your father, I’m pretty sure. You might know about the company too.” Sean hops up to an elevated rock and keeps walking. Nathan has to clamber over it.

“I don’t know _shit_ about my dad’s–”

“And you’re from Arcadia Bay, right. You know the town. I need someone who knows the town.”

“The fuck are you gonna do? I don’t talk to my dad!” Nathan jogs up again, arms to his sides, curled up into fists. “I haven’t been home since I got in! I don’t know the fucking town. And what exactly is your plan anyway? Huh?”

Sean doesn’t like his tone. Moreover – he doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have a plan. He’d rather Nathan not know that. Finding Daniel is the only prerogative. How, and where – he’s got mere whispers. Maria didn’t disclose much. She didn’t know either. But in any case… Nathan could still be helpful. If he would just shut the fuck up and do what he’s told. Sean’s demeanor is crumbling. Getting on his nerves.

“Hey! I’m talking to you.” Nathan comes up to his side now, as they walk. “What – you gonna walk into my dad’s house and ask him where your fucking brother is?”

“Maybe.” It’s true. Sean doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not going to pretend otherwise.

“You – holy shit, Diaz. You _are_ fucking stupid.” Nathan’s hands go up to his head and he puts more distance between them again. He’s only doing this so he can find an excuse to get out of this. Sean doesn’t answer. Which pisses him off even more.

They walk into a small clearing, and the sky’s visible – not as bright as it was. Creamy washes of orange and pink now streak back toward the way they came. It’s getting low. How much farther till the road again? Sean’s getting anxious. The directions could’ve been fake. They could’ve been sent into the woods to die, or be captured. Was blind trust the only way out of this? Was the breakout too convenient?

No… he hears something. A rumble. It comes and goes, low and quiet. And another. The sounds of cars. Civilization’s closer than it looks. The intel was right. They’re close.

“You listen to me, Diaz – I don’t know what’s going on here but I’m _not_ going back to Arcadia.”

“Yes, you are.” Sean still hasn’t turned around, or looked Nathan in the eyes. Nathan feels another spark or fury, muscles twitching. Breathes deeper.

“You don’t fucking tell me what to do.” He stops. Sean hears the footsteps cease. Stops too. Turns around. They’re finally looking at each other.

“What’s the problem here?” Sean asks quietly. Tone steady. Unlike Nathan’s.

“I’m not doing your crazy shit, Diaz. That’s the prob- the problem? Hah! You want me to fucking follow you without knowing shit? I don’t even know your brother! I don’t _give a fuck_ about your brother. And I’m not going back to fucking Arcadia, you get that through your _SKULL_ , Diaz!”

“Keep. Your voice. Down.” Sean’s losing it too. He’s surprised. Not many could get him this way. Something about Nathan just really, well and truly pisses him off. It’s not hatred either. Quite the opposite, in fact. Like an injured dog who needs help, but barks and growls at anyone who approaches.

“No, FUCK you!” Nathan steps forward, arms splayed. Sean stands his ground. Nathan’s up to his face. “What do you take me for? Huh? Think I’m gonna be your bitch just ‘cause you got Vaas off me? I never fucking _asked you,_ Diaz!”

“Yeah? You wanna be out here by yourself?” Sean’s voice kicks off too. A bit louder than he wants it to be, but his eye is digging into Nathan’s. “I got you out of prison, Prescott. I saved your life. You owe me this favor. So stop being a little shit, and-”

Nathan’s hand goes flying – grabs Sean by the collar. They stumble further into the clearing. Sean doesn’t trip. His hands grab Nathan’s. He’s taller. He bends forward, one leg behind the other, to push back. They struggle, Nathan practically growling.

“Calm down,” Sean hisses. It’s useless. Nathan claws at his face. At his good eye. Sean’s about to throw his first punch, when they both stop – Nathan looks to the side, and so does he, and their grunting and heaving dies down to the quiet of the woods again – but someone else is here. Quiet, but present. Looking at them.

A man stands in the clearing. Silhouette ablaze with golden light, broken through the trees to his left. A dead rabbit on his belt. Face obscure, but the loaded crossbow aimed at them both is unmistakable.

“Hi there.” A cheery voice comes from the face hidden in fuzzy shadow under his cap. “You boys look like you’re fresh outta prison.”

Their uniforms couldn’t very well be anything else. Should’ve changed before they walked into the forest. It was cold. Sean wasn’t thinking. Nathan lets go of him and looks to him instead. instinctively. To see what the hell they’re going to do. To ask for help. But Sean’s got his eye fixed on the hunter.

“Not on the run from the police, are we?” The crossbow points at Sean, steady, and he can hear a smile in the man’s voice. Birds above are loud. Clamorous, deafening. A flock erupts from the trees and streak across their patch of sky. Black, innumerable – but gone as swiftly as they’d come. The sun’s going down and the night approaches with steady grace. As they all stand in silence, another car rumbles in the distance.

*

_“... Standing at the edge of the crater, like the prophets once said...._

_And the ashes are all cold now, no more bullets, and the embers are dead...”_

A man’s old voice sings, crackled and worn, through the polished black weave of a Bluetooth speaker. Its rim glows red – battery’s low. Bleeding out every last bit of song it can before it dies. A woman stands by the crate it’s perched on, leaning on one leg, tapping a foot. Balcony railing before her, palatial house behind. White walls and sweeping modern windows hide a darkened interior, quiet and dead – but the house is far from empty. Her friends are here too. And, of course, the client. Fast asleep, most likely.

The night is heavy. Half moon glaring, and flat silver sands spread out for miles ahead of her. The city’s in sight beyond. Lights glimmer meekly through the low desert dust; the night is still young there. Her eyes follow the luminous streets, tiny in the distance, to greater beasts that dot the horizon, barely visible in the near-black of the sky beyond: pyramids. _The_ pyramids. Giant, ancient – distant and small. The city at its feet, alight with youth and splendor, she finds unnerving. The distance of age between the light of Cairo and the darkened pinnacles of Giza, a staggering thought. She sighs, both hands cradling an assault rifle. Don’t get distracted. You have a job to do.

She glances to the crate on her right; binoculars. Picks them up and gives the region the sixth sweep of her shift. No activity. Takes them off her eyes and unlatches the lens shifter, sliding a second set onto the frame from atop the device. Hears it click into place. Clicks a button on the side and puts it back on her eyes; thermal vision. Good for night jobs like this. Nothing out of the ordinary – but she can see animals now. Stark and clear, they’re very good at hiding in plain sight.

_“... Gladiators draw their swords..._

_Form their ranks, for Armageddon...”_

Howls. She hears them. High-pitched, like a dog – but too wild for a dog’s. Two. No, three – they’re distant, quiet, but getting louder. She can’t discern a direction. The song – it’s playing right next to her, and it’s loud enough. Time to bring the speaker down. She wants to hear the howls.

The song dies down quite a bit when she runs her finger along the rim. And now, the night is brighter. Crickets. Running water from the fountain in the garden below. The night comes alive against the softer, broken melody – and it’s somehow fresher. And the howling beasts, whatever they were – rise in cacophony. Echoes dance across the barren sand. She still can’t tell where they come from, or how far. Her body stands still and straight, but her neck is impulsive, eyes thirsty. The moonlight desert really is something else.

“How’s it lookin’, doll?”

Near goddamn heart attack. Her shoulders jerk and she whips around to see a man descend the steps from the living room into the balcony. He’s got a rifle too. Suppressed, like hers. A thick, greying moustache and heavy eyebrows. Eyebrows crossed as they look at her – like they always are. She hates those eyebrows. The moustache is fine, funnily enough.

“Jesus - you scared the shit out of me. No activity here. All quiet. What’re you doing off your post? This your break?”

“Hmm.” He gives a gruff nod and comes up next to her. “Did Amos approve music on the job?” Nods at the speaker.

“It’s turned down.” Her teeth gritted. “And I told you not to call me that.”

“What, doll?” He scowls at her again, half-grinning. “Come on. You still upset about Juarez?”

Her jaw cocks, burning eyes pulled away from him and toward the city. “It was my call. Not yours.”

“If you weren’t slow, you coulda made your call.”

“Jesus, you’re insufferable.”

He chuckles. “You’re only the ninth woman in my life to call me that.”

“You keep count, do you?” She fiddles with her iron sights, flipping it down and back up. Still pissed. He sighs.

“Alright, look – I’m sorry. Alright? Okay? That what you wanna hear? I’m sorry. Alright?”

His idea of an apology. She’s not sure she wants to take it. She looks up again, but not at him. “Why aren’t you at your post?”

“I’m on break, like I said. Like _you_ said.”

She shakes her head, glancing at him now. “We both started at nine, first break’s not until 1 am. Don’t bullshit me, David.”

He’s impressed, but not surprised. “Amos pulled me out. Said your brother, called him. Called his personal line.”

She looks at him fully for the first time now. Eyes wide.

“My- Vin- Vincent called _Amos?_ How?”

David shrugs. “He only called Amos after calling me. After calling you.”

She sputters. “That’s insane. How did he get your numbers?”

“I was gonna ask you that, Robbie. How _did_ he get our numbers?”

Fury flows back. She does not care for his tone. “You suggesting I told him? I don’t even know Amos’s number, David, and I wouldn’t give him yours. Christ. What do you take me for?”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He frowns at her again with those eyebrows. “I just asked a question. Don’t get all defensive now. Anyway... Amos told me to cover your shift while you go take care of him. Now.”

“Take – what?”

“Go call your brother. Sounds like an emergency. From what I hear, anyway.”

Her heart drops – did something happen to Crisa? She’d never forgive herself...

“Be right back.” She slings the rifle over her shoulder and makes her way toward the steps. Tries to hide how flushed her face is, despite the low light. He knows, regardless. She walks across the white cement, past the potted ferns and through towering glass walls into a darkened interior. Her temporary quarters is one of the seven guest bedrooms in this goddamn house. Seven. And those are just the guest ones. Ridiculous.

She nods to a few colleagues at their stationed posts, visible through the little arched windows carved into the wall. They’re probably wondering why she’s left her post. Not too many of them here. It’s a simple job, for the most part. Survey the environment. Report threats. Defend the asset. Today’s the last day – or rather, night. She can’t wait to get back to her time zone. Night shifts are grueling enough in the States.

Her steps are light, but not silent. This tiny walk seems unbearably long. Crisa’s face hangs over her like a shadow. No, no – don’t jump to conclusions. Your niece is fine. She’s absolutely fine. Vinno could be calling about virtually anything. She walks past a sprawling living room and open kitchen, down a hallway lit with low night lights along the floor. Her bedroom door is in sight.

Her phone’s charging by her bed. Not allowed to stay on her during patrol. She’s visibly concerned when the screen comes to life as she picks it up.

_VINNO (6 MISSED CALLS)_

Sweet Jesus, this had better be a crisis. He knows she can’t take calls on the job. She’s just taken time to go out and see him days ago. What’s this now? Why is nothing ever enough for him?

Ringing. She shuts the door and sits down on the bed, far too soft and bouncy for her taste. Her feet appreciate the res, though. He picks up almost immediately.

“Robbie. Hey.”

“Vinno, what the fuck. What’s going on? You’re scaring me. You alright?’

“No, no – I’m fine, just – there’s... been a development. In this case I’m working on. I’m sorry for all the calls...”

“Why am I hearing this?” She’s done with concern; if he’s fine, he has no reason to call her like this. “I’ve told you not to call me when I’m working. Emergencies only. And how’d you get my boss’s number? How’d you get _David’s_ number!?”

“I, uh... listen. We – we found Excalibur’s name on some invoices. We... found the invoices at a crime scene. We think they’re connected. Do you know anything about... Howard Roark Construction?”

She’s quiet. Checks to make sure the door is shut. Lowers her voice.

“Are you seriously asking me about our clients? You know the answer to that. And what crime scene? Is this the one you told me about – your colleague and the weird body in her kitchen or some shit?”

“No – no, not that. It’s a homicide, different case. But – listen, just hear me out. Fourteen thousand dollars were made out to Excalibur. It... could have something to do with Oregon. Did you take any jobs in Oregon?”

“I don’t know how many ways I can say this, Vincent.” She’s beyond furious. “I _can’t talk about that with you._ Are you not even listening?”

“This man was murdered, Robbie.” He sounds angry too. “To hell with your confidentiality clause. You can’t tell me a single thing to help me find out who did it? You can’t bend the rules for once, is that it?”

“You – can’t expect me to – get a fucking warrant. Don’t take that tone with me.”

Silence. She might have gone too far with the warrant thing. She gets up to pace. Not willing to hang up the phone, but won’t break the silence either. He finally does.

“Listen, Robbie, just – okay, don’t tell me about your clients. Don’t tell me about – anything, just – could you just tell me if you know anything about this... if you’ve heard about... the Vesuvius project?”

Her feet, heavy with boots, come to a halt. No more pacing. Breathing is just a little shallow. She switches ears for the phone.

“Where is this coming from?”

“It was – well you know what, if you can’t tell me, I can’t tell you. There’s gotta be some back and forth here.”

Sighs. “Vin... just – just stay out of this. Just drop this case. Pass it on to someone, I don’t know – don’t go there.”

Silence from his end again. When he speaks, his voice is sharper. “Why? What do you know? What’s Vesuvius?”

She resigns to his anger. His confusion. To her own. “I don’t know. And neither should you. I have to go. Don’t _ever_ let me hear you talk about this again. Fucking _drop it._ Goodbye.”

“ROB-!”

Hangs up. She cradles the phone for a bit, staring at the wall. Bites her finger. Plug the charger back in – there’s no time to stand still. Either work, or don’t.

But when she does, she sees the charger unplugged from the wall. The prongs stick out just far enough to escape. Her phone’s been bleeding battery life for the past six hours. She checks the remaining lifespan – three percent.

“Fucking perfect.” She pushes the charger back in and connects the device to its respirator. Breathing again. It’ll take a bit. But she’s angrier now.

Robbie makes her way back to her post. It’s not worth asking David. She knows she could, and she knows it would anger him – but Oregon wasn’t too long ago, and now her brother’s involved. It’s not something to be brushed under the rug, is it? The whole team seems to disagree, but she can see cracks in their façade. At least David, of all people, is doing something about it. Eventually. He won’t share. And he won’t hear any questions either. She’s always respected that.

“So what’s the hubbub?” David turns to see her coming back down the steps, into the balcony. She says nothing. Comes up to her post and unslings the rifle. She notices the uncanny silence – ah yes, David turned off her speaker. Of course he did.

No respect. Alright. Fine by her.

“Did you look into Howard Roark yet?” She snaps without hesitation now. David’s brows fall into each other like a split bridge meeting after a passing ship.

“I’ve told you to stay out of that, Robbie.”

“Vinno’s working a case in Seattle. Says he found Excalibur invoices at a crime scene. Something about HR Construction, and Oregon, and... Vesuvius.”

David takes a deep breath. Calm himself down. Looks away again. Cairo draws his eyes, as it did hers, when she needed a distraction.

“Fucking Vesuvius.” He shakes his head. Real remorse in his eyes, in his voice. She can feel it. Same as her own. “Should’ve never taken that job. If I’d known, that... piece of shit, Prescott was paying us–”

“It wasn’t your call to make.” She tries to calm him down. “You didn’t know.” 

“I... told Joyce I’d be coming in next week. It’s the soonest I can get time off. And HRC is blocking all my inquiries, so... I set up a sting. Got the files in my drive.”

“And?” She’s all in now. She knows how big this could be. But David’s guard hasn’t dropped that far yet.

“I can’t tell you that, Robbie. For your own good. The less people know, the better. I don’t know how far that... Prescott knows people. Last thing I need is a screw-up.”

“You think I’m a screw-up?”

“I – I didn’t _say_ that. Jesus. Give me a break.”

A few minutes of silence now. Robbie doesn’t know what to say. She’s not sure he’s being entirely honest – his omissions aside. David’s always been more of a wall than anything else, even with her.

“I’m worried.” She decides to try honesty herself. Interrogation never works on him. “About this whole… Prescott thing. That’s all. That’s why I’m asking. It’s messy, David.” Turns to face him fully. He grants her some silence, in place of another retort. Her words aren’t coming from thin air. He knows this.

“I’m worried about your – Joyce Price, you said? And her school? I mean, Christ – _two_ kids missing now? Right?”

“They’ve done this before.” David’s voice lowers to a shadowy growl. “And they got away with it before.”

“You told me the killer’s in prison.”

David takes a deep breath. She turns away. Already in too deep. And their relationship isn’t to a place where they can talk freely again. She’s half in mind to give up. But only half.

“The killer… is in prison. And he’ll be out, once he’s done. That’s called getting away with it. He gets to be a free man again? That’s not justice.”

David locks eyes with her. Robbie isn’t so adamant in facing him anymore. He’s only been like this a handful of times before – only when they talk about this. He scares her.

“He got away with it. He tore Joyce apart. If I ever see Nathan Prescott again – I’ll kill him.” He nods at her. As if to emphasize. To convince her as much as he’s convincing himself of it. “I’ll kill him right then and there.”

She gives him a minute. David usually calms himself down these days – bit different from when they’d first met. And he does. He clears his throat. Surveys the landscape again. Nods to himself.

“Sorry, I – I know you’re concerned. But I don’t want anyone wrapped up in this who don’t have to be.”

“What if I _want_ to be?”

“You don’t.”

“Not your call.” She spots something in the distance. Dark and shadowy. Picks up the binoculars to confirm – it’s an animal. Several. Look like dogs.

“Is now really the time…” He trails off. “I gotta get back to my post. Amos only gave me so long.”

“Let me help you.” She’s not taking no for an answer. “You think I’m not capable? I wanna see this bastard stopped as much as you do.”

He doesn’t say yes – and he doesn’t say no. That’s more than enough progress for her. She tries to push her luck.

“And you should work with Vinno on this.” She addresses the elephant on the balcony.

“No.” He shoots it.

“He’s working a case that _directly–”_

“–Robbie, no–”

“–you have _no reason_ to not get in touch with–”

“This is _my fight,_ dammit!” Finally, his voice is louder. Not a good thing when you’re on recon. He regrets it immediately. Holds up a fist and stretches his fingers, calming himself down. She wasn’t fazed by it – he’s been worse before.

“This... is _mine_ to deal with. Okay? Not yours, not your brother’s – it’s mine. And I’ll do it my way. All due respect, I don’t need a cop involved, setting up all these legal roadblocks. You understand?”

Robbie stares on for a moment. Maybe David’s resolve is what impresses her. Staggers her. But she’s not one to step away when he barks. It’ll come up again soon, and she’ll have to make a choice. She peels her eyes off his stoic glare and off to the sands again – movement.

Dark shapes shifting in the distance, from beyond low-lying rocks. Definitely not dogs this time. They’re upright. She’s fast. Grabs the binoculars from the crate. Narrows in on the spot. They’re people. Three – no, four. Headed toward the house.

“Movement.” She ducks below the balcony barrier and David does too, moving over to the other end of the space. Both have their rifles held, but hidden behind the barrier. Robbie switches on the mount in her ear and brings the mouthpiece up from under her shirt.

“Beehive, this is Kali Blue, west balcony, spotted movement – about a hundred meters out, maybe less. Four trespassers, appear to be unarmed, please advise, over.”

David tunes in to her right. She catches his arm move in her peripheral. His voice crackles into her intercom.

“Beehive, this is Kali Grey, also on west balcony, five hostiles on route, repeat _five_ hostiles on route – Komodo confirm you’re still manning the high ground? Over.”

A new voice – old, haggard, sharp and low – bleeds through the intercom for both of them.

“This is Komodo, high ground secure. Trespassers in sight. Kali Grey, descend and exit out front, report on distance, await instructions. Kali Blue, maintain. Terra White, descend, assist Kali Grey, maintain distance - you are both Core One. Beehive remaining, stand by. Out.”

Confirmations from all parties. Hearing them all reassures her. David hops the balcony from the north side and sneaks up to the white concrete pillars dotting the garden below. Glances up at her and they nod at each other. Complete trust. She sees David motion hand gestures to someone behind her – on the lower floor. Terra White. He has backup. Makes her feel better. She keeps watch.

"This is Core One, we are green, over." 

"Status confirmed, stand by, Core One. Out." 

The shapes break off from their formation. People – dressed in camo to match the sand, but the moonlight gives them away. Shadows spread across and around the house. Infiltrators lying low to the ground. Their feet are quiet in the shifting sand. Air is windless – still as stone. Robbie’s own breathing grows louder with every passing step of the enemy.

“Three to your right,” she relays to David and Terra. Three of the five broke off to go around the north side of the house.

“Copy that.”

She switches to the open line. “Komodo, hostiles dispersing, please advise.”

“North secure. Kali Blue, maintain west side. Report on any backup.”

“Copy.”

She wants to help David. Sudden urge to drop down to the garden with him. But orders are orders – right?

“Komodo to balcony east crew, report.”

New voice. “Eh, Kali White to Beehive – two hostile confirmation, we survey east. No more target. No movement from target. We stand by. Over.”

“Negative, you and Honey Shark are to engage. You are Core Two. Clear the east side. Soft approach. Out.”

“… Roger.”

Soft approach. Amos wants this done quiet – but what about the three to the left? Robbie can’t stand looking out over barren wasteland when enemies are flanking them. David and Terra are outnumbered by one.

“Komodo, this is Kali Blue – requesting permission to aid in the north side balcony. Hostiles outnumber the crew three to two.”

“Kali Blue, your orders remain. Do not disengage from west side recon. Report on any additionals. Is that clear?”

“… Copy.” Doesn’t bother hiding the anger in her voice.

"Komodo, this is Core Two, we are green, repeat, we are green, over." 

"Status confirmed, stand by."Amos addresses David and Terra now. “Core One, your target is the one by the pillar. Terra White, your target is the infiltrator in the garage. Neutralize softly. I will engage the third. Welcome wagon when target is down.”

“Copy. We are still green and good to go."

"Core Two is go."

"Cores One and Two, on my command." A moment's still silence. And Amos wastes no time.

"Execute."

The crew is fast. Her eyes survey a harmless field while she listens to the suppressed spitting fires of their SMGs, the muffled screams from the right – south crew is having trouble. North crew, on the other hand – total silence. That’s either good news, or bad. And it’s sudden – a louder, heavier _thwack_ – and the sound of a body hitting the floor. And the shouting dies as soon as it starts. She doesn’t know Arabic. But they sound terrified. And then they’re quiet too, like everyone else.

“Kali Grey, Honey Shark - report.” Amos seems to read her mind.

“Kali Grey to Beehive – north secure.”

“Honey Shark to Beehive, targets down, no additionals.”

“Terra White, guest status?”

“Vitals stable.” Terra White speaks now. “Bringing him in. Out.”

They have a hostage now. Client is secure. Asset is secure. An infiltration was to be expected – but Robbie’s concerned with their numbers. She remains in her position. A mere five?

“Kali Blue, report.”

“No further hostiles in si- _shit.”_

“Kali Blue, come in.”

David kicks into the intercom now. “Kali Blue, respond.” He’s down in the gardens. The west balcony’s in sight, but he can’t climb up – he’ll have to go up through the stairwell in the house. No – it’s smarter to head out in the west side of the garden. If any targets are coming, that’s where they’ll be. He motions to Terra – and they both approach Robbie’s field.

“Kali Blue, respond.” Amos’s voice is heavier than David’s, in every sense of the word. It snaps her out of it – she’d been securing her suppressor, adjusting her sights. Brings up the rifle to the balcony barrier.

“Five hostiles approaching, north west ridge.” Her voice is steady. Arms are steady. Breathe.

“Core One–”

“This is Kali Grey, west garden secure, hostiles in sight.”

“–you are clear to engage.”

“Copy that.”

They’re not fast enough. David’s barely getting in position. Robbie’s breath comes to a stinging halt, sharp intake of air; fingers firm and steady, the butt of the rifle kicks into her shoulder in small, strong hits; she brings down five moving targets in three controlled bursts. Human bodies drop into clouds of dust. A single shot from Amos above eliminates dwindling signs of life from one last target crawling in his own blood. White sand stained red. David looks up at her from his position – she gives him a glance and looks way, surveying with binoculars again.

“Targets down. No further hostiles, standing by.”

“Copy that. Terra White, cross the garden.” Amos is watching from the top floor.

Robbie glances back at David again. Something in his eyes. It’s more than just pride – he looks relieved. Like she gave him an answer he’d been sorely missing. The assurance he wished he had a few minutes prior. Maybe seeing her do it was enough. Seeing her hold her own. She’s offended that he’d even need confirmation. They’ve known each other long enough. But maybe – when it came to Vesuvius, or Arcadia Bay, or Joyce Price – he needs more than that. She can forgive that.

He nods – small, sharp – and looks away. Back to the enemy space. More could come any second – but now he knows, as does she, that they’ll handle it. Relief washes over her too, albeit for just a moment. David Madsen’s trust is an elusive beast.

*

_OREGON STATE PRISON RIOT: OVER 50 ESCAPEES_

Headlines aren’t really trying these days, are they? Journalism’s more of a service than an art, at this point. Maria Flores swipes past the report on her phone. Seeing it in every corner isn’t helping her. She’s already in deep.

“Are you ready to order?”

Waiter’s getting impatient. This is the second time he’s flown up to her table. Notepad in hand and towel tucked into his belt. Like a quintessential man of service, but lacking the tact to let a customer breathe. He’ll learn someday. For now, she decides to give in. Gives the menu card a lazy lift with two fingers, glancing at the drinks menu.

“Yeah, I’ll have… the rooibos latte. No sugar.”

“Coooooomin’ right up.” He sings in relief as he writes her order down, swerving away without eye contact. Odd boy.

The café has an alluring 20th-century fragrance to it. Checkerboard tiles, navy blue ceiling, polished chrome bar stools, novelty jukebox in the corner that she suspects doesn’t actually work – it’s a theme here. It’s not too on the nose, though – the servers don’t dress like it’s 1960, for one thing. And the drinks here are quite decent. She makes it a point to visit this place whenever she’s in Seattle.

Maria checks her watch. One leg over another, leaning into the padded booth by a sprawling window. The street beyond is busier than usual. A city employee carries a shoulder-mounted vacuum cleaner, moving across the sidewalk across from her. He’s wearing a gleaming orange face mask and goggles. Cleaning up the street from the bizarre events of the day before.

The ashfall.

It’s still visible, isn’t it? She doesn’t have to look hard. He’s scooping up the little piles of ash swept under bushes and piled around telephone poles. Any dust of wind and it goes flying up in plumes. People are quick to slap on scarves or face masks – or just pull up their shirts. For once, the rain is missed. Would help in washing all this away. But it’s unreasonably dry, all of a sudden. And the city’s scrambling to clean up the incredulous dust.

She’d checked the news. It was indeed, just ash. A volcano going off somewhere? That’s the first explanation. Doesn’t make any sense, since nothing went off. Local reports of ash residue nearly four inches thick had already caved in some rooftops, choked out the flora; animals running asunder, riverbeds caked and stifled. Construction projects halted. Traffic redirected. Sewage systems in need of a thorough cleanup – it’s a mess. The full extent of the damage, only time would tell. Maybe the scientists and the geologists just haven’t found the right volcano yet. Maybe that’s the case. She’s not too bothered by it. More curious than anything.

“Yoouuuur rooibos latte, here you go!” A cup is set before her. Creamy, swirly, red and white.

“Thank you.” She takes a sip. Regrets it immediately – the milkstache is heavy on her lip, and it won’t be professional when her friend arrives. Not that she’s making any effort to be on time. Maria licks the foam off her lip and goes in for another gulp. It’s a decent brew.

A bell goes off and hinges creak; the coffee shop’s door swings open. Heavy feet and a tall frame. Short-cut hair and heavy lidded eyes turn and jab in her direction. Maria holds up a hand to wave. The visitor stomps down past the tables and promptly slides into her booth, small smile afloat.

“Agent Flores?”

“Officer Firoza.” Two hands meet above the table for a brisk shake; two bodies lean back into the faded leather seats.

“Good of you to come down.” Firoza’s more fidgety than she expected. Maria clears her throat.

“Not at all, I had other business in Seattle anyway – thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

“Yeah – yeah, no, it’s no problem.”

Waiter pops back in record time. “Aaaaand what can I get started for you?”

“Coffee. Black. Thanks.” Firoza’s quick and stifled in speech. Almost looks like she doesn’t want to be her. Maria, one leg over another and hands together atop the table, doesn’t think too much of it. Just an observation.

The waiter leaves – something about her rubbed him wrong. Didn’t sing a song on his way out. Maria takes note of this.

“So… where do we start?” Firoza leans forward a bit; deep sigh.

“Hmm…” Maria nods, thumbs tapping each other. “So – let’s, uh… I don’t want you to think any less of Ed, for giving me–”

Firoza waves it aside with a jerky head shake. “Don’t even worry about it. He’s old, he doesn’t care about too much. It’s fine. So long as this stays between us… until, you know…”

“Of course.” Maria takes another sip, carefully avoiding a milkstache this time. “How long were you CIA?”

“Six years.”

“Impressive. What made you quit?”

Firoza squints, faint grin. “We’re… not here to talk about me. Or you. Are we?”

Maria laughs a little. “No, just – thought I’d break the ice. It’s what people do. Don’t they?”

She laughs too. “I’m fine skipping that if you are.”

“Thank God.” She rolls her eyes and takes another sip. They’re both a bit more comfortable now.

“So, let’s – talk about this homicide. The… McGrier case?”

“Jameson McGrier. What do you wanna know?” Firoza leans back.

“Who was he?” Maria’s hands clasp the cup, rubbing its rim.

“He was… nobody, really. At first glance, anyway. Retired journalist. Lived out of a coastal town in Oregon for most of his life… didn’t get up to much. Kept to himself.”

“When was he murdered?”

Firoza grins. “Nah, there’s gotta be some give and take here, agent. You can’t ask all the questions. I have a few.”

Maria’s a bit taken aback – but it’s not entirely unreasonable. She smiles too. “That… fair. Shoot.”

Firoza lowers her voice. Glances around. “Daniel Diaz. Is he… really – can he actually…?”

“Can he actually what?”

“I remember… reading something about – the, uh – the wording was… vague. Said he moved objects – like cars – without touching them? Made objects fly? Any of that true?”

Maria’s mouth is dry. She never expected – or anticipated – that Firoza would be this brazen. Or ask about this, out of everything.

“Yes. It’s true.”

“Have you – actually seen it?”

“My turn, officer.” She grins. “How was he murdered?”

Firoza sighs again. “Lacerations are consistent with… a large blade. Poor bastard bled out on the carpet. Some signs of struggle. Nothing taken from the apartment – as far as we know. Happened September 18th. I wasn’t there personally – my boss and his forensic team were. And the first responders.”

Maria nods. She has follow-ups – but remembers the rules of the game. Waits for the question. Firoza leaps in.

“So – what is… Vesuvius? Have you learned anything new since… we talked?” Real talk now.

Maria nods, looking down at the dregs of her drink. “I put some feelers out. Not much, mind you – not too many people off-the-books who I can still talk to. Best I could find on Vesuvius–”

“Heeeeeere’s your coffee!” Big cup of piping hot liquid comes between them. “Anything else I can get for either of you?”

“No, we’re fine, thanks.” Maria shoos him off.

“Aaaalrighty, well – I’ll be just a hoot away if you need me! Enjoy your coffee!”

Firoza’s not having it. She glares him down as he walks away. Looks back to Maria. “Go on.”

“Yes, so – Vesuvius was… hard to find, you can imagine – it’s not a made-up word. Plenty of things named Vesuvius out there. Not to mention the volcano. But… my people are good. They linked the word to the names of the other people on that list you passed on to Ed.”

“The list of targets? With Daniel Diaz on it?”

“Yes. I – wouldn’t call them targets–”

“–Yeah, I know. I just – nothing. Carry on, please.”

Maria notes a bit of desperation in her voice. “Edith Horvac. Jane Clearwood. Two of the first names on the list. Both residents of a little town called Arcadia Bay. In Oregon.”

Firoza holds her breath.

“There’s a lot of… fog, in Arcadia, in terms of paper trails. But… we found an invoice. Made out to one… Howard Roark Construction. It’s a company based out Wyoming, nothing spectacular. But the bill was hefty. And Vesuvius was on it.”

Firoza blinks. “On – on it, how? How do you mean – on it, like-?”

“I mean, Vesuvius was a construction contract for HRC.”

“Construction. In Arcadia Bay?”

“I wouldn’t assume, but… yeah. Might be.”

“Anything else?”

Maria doesn’t take the bait. “My turn.”

Firoza sighs and leans back on her seat again. “Yeah, yeah – fair enough. Go for it.”

“So – Jameson’s homicide is over a month old, and your team has turned up… nothing.” She shakes her head and waves a few fingers; tries to sound non-confrontational, but it’s not working. “What’s even more strange, I think, is that your – you said, your boss was on the site?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he usually join your teams on every call-out?”

Firoza thinks back. Maoro’s always been more of a phone-call kind of man. He’s been on site many times, sure – but not enough to be a consistency.

“No, I wouldn’t say he joins us… usually.”

“But he was there for this one.”

“Yes.”

“And… I’m getting to my question, my real question – not your turn yet – who… was it… that found the, uh – the document with the Vesuvius names on it?”

Firoza catches a whiff of where this is going, and she doesn’t like it. Not one bit. But maybe it’s too early to assume. It’s definitely too early. She lets nothing loose. Face impassive.

“My boss. Same guy.”

Maria nods. Bites her lip. “I see. How – did he find it, where… where exactly in the home–?”

“Inside the vintage TV. He… pried it open. And found it in a… I think it was an old cigarette case. Lots of documents. Photographs. All folded up and stuffed in there.”

Maria’s digging daggers into Firoza’s eyes, who doesn’t look away. “And he just… _knew._ He just knew it was there.”

“We both searched the place. For a good while. Before he found it.”

Maria’s eyes narrow. “We both – you mean, you and him, specifically? You said you weren’t on the scene.”

Firoza sighs. Shit. “I – he and I… went back. To the apartment. To take another look, see if we missed anything. Because the evidence we had wasn’t much.”

“I see. And when was this?”

“You’ve asked a lot of questions.”

“No more games, officer.” Maria’s tone is vastly different. “I’m trying to understand something very crucial here. When did you and him go back, specifically, without anyone else?”

Firoza considers putting her foot down. Or even getting up to leave. But the smallest possibility that what Maria’s insinuating could have merit, is too great. Too drastic. She plays along, biting her lip.

“That was… five days ago. Five or six. Something like that. About a week.” 

“And was it your idea to go back to the apartment? Or his?”

“… He brought it up.”

“I see.” Maria nods again and looks down, her thumbs tapping each other like they’ve been for a while. She looks up again, and Firoza’s not so comfortable staring back anymore.

“Officer Firoza… I’m going to ask you to think critically here. Your boss – your superior, is on the scene for a homicide, which is unusual, but not extraordinary – but then, he takes you back to the scene for no good reason, and just – what – happens to find pivotal evidence that sheds new light on the case? Happens to know exactly where to look?” Maria’s shrugging gently, eyebrows raised, head moving side to side. “Does that sound… unusual to you, at all?”

She’s in a corner. She can’t answer in any way, other than to look back out the window. The ash is still being cleaned up outside. She can hear the vacuum screech across the street every time a patron opens the door. She doesn’t look back when she speaks, and her voice is lower than it’s ever been.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m just bringing it to your attention. It’s unusual. Without a doubt, your boss’s behavior is… unusual.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about him.”

“Neither did I.” Maria’s unfazed. Takes another sip and licks her lip for good measure. Firoza hasn’t touched her coffee.

“Getting cold.” She lifts her brows at the mug. Firoza doesn’t take it.

“So what are we doing here, agent?” Firoza leans forward again, elbows on her knees in an aggressive slouch.

“You said Jameson was from a coastal Oregon town? It’s Arcadia Bay, isn’t it?”

“I never said–”

“If…” She cuts her off. “…Jameson’s death is linked to HRC, and to Vesuvius – the first two names on the list are missing persons cases – if he has something to do with those names, at all – then this falls under concurrent jurisdiction.”

Firoza finally understands. “You want this case.”

“It’s not about me. The FBI can organize a task force with your department – and with Oregon State. Wyoming’s division too, if it comes to that.”

“You also said you wanted to talk about our data breach.”

Maria blinks. A little abrupt. Was it a distraction?

“Ye – yes. Did you get in touch with Aaklya?”

“We did. Traced the intrusion, but it’s not a registered IP. But I suspect we’ll… find out who broke in, soon enough.”

“And when you do?” Maria’s pushing the right buttons.

“You want me to keep you in the loop, is that it?” Firoza’s uncharacteristically aggressive after what Maria said about Maoro. Rightfully so.

“I can… ask Aaklya to update me if you’re not comfortable with it.”

That’s the worst thing she could’ve said, and she knows it. Firoza’s under pressure. Maria corners her, and then gives her an escape vent – a chance to fall out of the loop, and lose control. Whether she takes it is a matter of character now.

“If… you’re gonna take this to internal, I want to be on the force. I’m the acting for this case. Only makes sense. Right, agent?”

“Of course. And I hope you know we’ll take _every_ angle necessary to get answers.” Maria couldn’t have been more blunt if she tried. No – that’s a lie. She can be. She might, still. She gets to her feet.

“Thanks again for coming down,” she says with a smile. “I’ll be in touch.”

Firoza doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t even look up. She sits motionless, staring into her coffee. Maria, about to leave, stops.

“Firoza.”

She finally looks up.

“No one’s infallible.”

And Maria leaves her there in her silence. Firoza takes the cup and takes her first sip – tepid, lukewarm. Not quite cold, but not hot enough to matter. Checks her watch. She’s already running late. Doesn’t want to go back to work. To face Maoro. She’s not sure how she’d react, seeing him again after that. Or maybe it’s her sheer disappointment in herself, to have overlooked what Maria so easily saw through.

_Am I incompetent?_

“Waiter!” She waves down the sing-songy man serving eggs to an elderly couple two tables down. “Refill, please.”

*

“Wulfric Gardner.”

Maxine’s blank stare doesn’t surprise Ray. The name couldn’t be more unfamiliar. Warren shoots glances between them both.

“I don’t know. I have no idea who that is.” Maxine’s a lot more vocal today than the last time Ray had seen her. Something wore down her shell a bit. It’s been a rough few days, hasn’t it?

“Are you sure? Maybe you… met him at a party somewhere? Maybe… old school friend? Acquaintance?”

“We went to the same school,” Warren interjects. “Never knew anyone called Wulfric Gardner.”

“If you could let Miss Caulfield answer the questions.” Ray’s patience runs thin these days. Mind scattered. Forgetting his wallet – losing his card. Letting Aaron Vonn keep it overnight. And now the kid’s AWOL. Camille’s face glares at him when thoughts are quiet, and rooms empty. Tear-streaked – cracking at the seams with grief, horror, confusion – eyes that sought answers and vengeance and vindication, all at the same time. Too much for someone so young. Then again – Ray’s no stranger to the corruption of youth.

No. Don’t go there now. You’re at work. You’re in your dingy old office. No, that’s not true – the paint job is remarkably unexceptional. A grand flat eggshell white. The fluorescent tubes don’t help. He needs windows in here. All he has are two TV screens. Neither of which have scenery. The cabinets and files stuffed in them echo an era of dated documentation – especially when state-of-the-art archiving technology sits on his desk as he speaks to the two visitors, asleep, tiny light blinking. At least the office is unreasonably large for just one person. He takes solace in that.

“No, we never knew anyone at school with… Do – do you know… _how_ he d- how he passed?” Maxine asks, one hand in her lap and the other hanging out of her cast, soft eyes determined. She’s not afraid of a conviction. Even now, she’s concerned with the victim – always asking who he is, how he died, trying to make sense of it all. Ray’s fascination with this woman reaches deeper depths still. How could anyone care for their fellow human being – on seemingly no other basis than that they were, in fact, human – when their back is so irrevocably against the wall?

Ray nods. “Coroner confirmed a drug overdose.” The blank stares on Maxine and Warren don’t assure him of their satisfaction. He clears his throat and illustrates a little. “The, uh… an excessive consumption of… morphine.”

“…Morphine?” Maxine blinks.

“There it is again – a faint, gentle, but ever-present pressure in her skull. A tingling between her eyebrows, her lips drying out. Her eyes scan Ray’s desk for nothing in particular. Instinctive, and sudden – her good hand flies up to her nose. She’s never done that before. Not in a long time. She’s not sure what she expected to find. More blood? Why would she bleed again?

Why’d she bleed earlier today? She knew, at some point – a couple of hours back. But whatever those revelations were, they’ve retreated into fog once more – albeit not as completely as they once were. Her mind feels like a minefield. Terrified to take a step in any direction – but fruitless to stay where she is.

Warren perks up at the broken delivery of her voice. She’s not out of the woods yet. He squeezes her arm and looks back at Ray, who decides to press on.

“Now, we’ve searched your house and we didn’t find any trace of… more extreme pain medications. Your… medical history doesn’t suggest you’d need that. So why do you think Gardner was found in your apartment with enough morphine in his system to kill the man?”

“Hey, hold on a second.” Warren’s not having it. Maxine wishes he’d stay quiet. “She has nothing to do with how he got there, so why would she know how he died?”

Ray takes a heavy breath. Looks down at his empty desk too, where Maxine’s resting her eyes. “Mister Graham, I’d like you to step out of my office.”

“Wha-!” Warren scoffs, hands splayed in indignation. “I’m not – we don’t have to be here, this is a courtesy! Let’s go, Max. You don’t need this.” He gets to his feet, throwing his coat back on. 

Maxine does not.

“Max?”

She finally looks away from the varnished wood. Warren’s a little staggered by that look. It’s even less familiar than she usually is. A far throw from the way she’d been these last two hours. He’d felt like he’d gotten back and old friend for a while there.

“Warren, please – just – wait outside. I won’t be long.”

Looks from her, to Ray, and back to her. They’re both in a different world than he is. Nothing could’ve been a harsher reminder. His Max had sailed down a river far from where he remained, tethered to an old tree, hoping she’d come back. She knows how to row in waters like this. Her grip on the oars are stronger than his. And he’s a liability on her boat. Get off; float to shore. She’ll meet you there.

“Fine.” He stomps out the office, wrenching the door open.

“Sorry Warren, I promise I’ll be right–” _Slam._ Cuts her off with a door shut with finality. She knows he’s angry now, but she knows he’ll be there waiting – he always is. The one thing in her life she can count on to be consistent, predictable – comforting. A beacon in these waters. Always there, guiding her to shore. Something she doesn’t know if she deserves.

She turns to face Ray again. Ignore the pounding in her brain. Maybe it’s just the concussion. That’s probably it.

“Morphine. You said – consumed? So… pills. Not IV.”

“That’s right. We have a pretty good idea which product was used. I won’t be sharing that with you just yet.”

“Because… you still don’t trust me.” It wasn’t a question. Maxine studies him carefully, like a quiet animal in the woods, watching a hunter through shrouded leaves. Ray chuckles. Hollow. Dry.

“You can’t blame me for having doubts, you – don’t exactly have a rock-solid defense, here.”

“And you don’t have a conviction.” Maxine’s a bit more aggressive when her head pounds like this. Not something she expected to learn today. How about that.

“For now. Look, I – didn’t call you down here to argue. Okay? I’m just stating things the way they are. These questions are gonna come at you. Alright? If it’s not me, it’ll be with Sharma and – and Abramovich back in the broom closet. Don’t think you look forward to that.”

He cracks a grin – hoping the ‘broom closet’ line would break a sliver of the tension in the room. It doesn’t. Maxine’s face is solemn, and a little sad, but mostly an impassive wall. But there might even be some pity in those dubious eyes.

“If… there’s something you’d like to tell me, Miss – Ma – can I call you Maxine?”

She nods.

“If there’s anything I need to know – you need to tell me _now._ Now, while you still have a hand on the wheel. Because once this gets out of your hands, it’s out of my hands too.”

Maxine waits for him to ask.

“If… you were – let’s say… _helping_ this person, this – Wulfric Gardner, if you were… providing him with opioids, now Maxine – I’m on your side, here. Okay? I’m on your side, but for me to help you, you have to help me. Maybe your, uh – friend there – outside – didn’t know about Gardner. Maybe he’s someone you were helping out. And maybe… while you were at work… Gardner took one too many pills.”

He waits for her to show something. Anything. But she just looks down again. And then away to the side. She’s biting her lip. “You think – you think I’m – what – peddling opioids to people? Is that it?” She says it with a soft laugh that he doesn’t quite know how to handle.

“All I’m saying is – if there’s anything you need to come clean about, that you haven’t already – your window… is very small. You need to tell me now, so I can help you later down the line. You know how this works. You know how the judge will see it when I testify how much you cooperated in these… early days.”

Maxine nods to herself. Still not making eye contact. Does she think he’s not worth looking at? Or is she scared of being found out? Scared that he’s actually close to some modicum of truth?

“Wulfric… Gardner.” Her voice is quiet, but stable. He instinctively leans forward a bit, and reels himself back a second later. Get a hold of yourself, man.

“Did he… have any family?”

The last question he’s expecting. The last thing to be on her mind. Nothing to say in her defence?

“Uh – yeah, yes, he – had a daughter. And a wife.”

“I’d like to meet them.” Not a shred of doubt in her voice; she demands it with a gentle ferocity that he can’t even call rude. It’s surreal, watching her speak.

“I… don’t think that’s possible. No.”

She nods again. Biting her lip again. Rubs her bad arm with her good hand. And her head bows, and she rubs her temple, eyes closed. The headache is persistent. She speaks through it.

“Then, can you, um – can you give them a message for me?”

Ray’s overwhelmed by an urge to offer her some aspirin. He bites it down and adopts a curt tone.

“I’m not a messenger, Maxine. Certainly not when the investigation is so sensitive.”

Her final nod is the slowest one yet. She gets to her feet without looking at him. Her black leather jacket never left her shoulders. She turns to leave without giving him any kind of look at all, and he can’t handle it.

“Maxine!”

She stops. Turns to face him, one hand on the door.

“Are you–!?” He reins himself in. Voice is too heated. Eyes too desperate. He knows she can see it. Lowers his tone and asks again. “Are you really… not going to give me _anything_ here? You really think it’s wise? Not taking help when you can? How many friends do you have right now? And I’m not talking about your ex out there. You really want to do this alone?”

He’s said a bit too much. His face flushes. He got too personal. Where did that come from? He has no business talking about her like that – least of all to her. He takes a deep breath again and prepares to apologize. But Maxine cuts him off.

“I have _great_ friends. And I don’t sell drugs. To anyone. I don’t know who he is and I don’t know how he got there.” And her face melts again, her poise and stoic firmness gone as quick as it came. Is she doing this on purpose, or does she really have no way to hide it? He’s entranced, every time. She speaks to the desk again.

“I’m… sorry he died. Just wanted them to know that.”

And with that, she leaves. One final thud, and it’s quiet once more – an oppressive silence that he usually doesn’t enjoy. Right now, though – it’s comforting. The office seems smaller somehow.

*

_Warren_

_Feels like I should update you here since it’s 3 AM and you’re probably asleep. Call me when you’re up if you want to talk about it. I’m attaching some screenshots of the drone footage over Wells’ farm. Convincing the lab to let me fly one over a second time was a bitch and a half. Nobody has any fucking money these days. Least of all in buttfuck Arcadia Bay. Still no stray sheep found – go figure. But anyway._

_You were right. The anomaly IS getting bigger. Good news is it’s not growing fast at all. But really, really slow. Yeah it’s getting bigger. Compare the shot from two months ago to the shot I took last week. The IR emissivity is a solid 1.0. for both cases, but in the new one you can see the diameter of the stabilized lens get more filled up with the spectrographic shots in the center. It’s incredible. There must be an object there we can’t perceive. How’d you guess it would grow bigger? You have to tell me. Speaking of which. Do you think the missing sheep never left the farm? Maybe they fell into it somehow? I don’t wanna get too sci-fi here. We should talk._

_I’m so sorry to hear about your job. If you need any help, I’m here. Don’t want you starving when we’re on the cusp of something this wild! (JK you won’t starve. Unless you blew all your savings on Gunpla?)_

_Also wanted to just bring something up. Might be thin ice here but I don’t care. I know your divorce has been rough. You never really want to talk about it. I don’t want to force you but. If you and I are ever going to be a thing, you need to be comfortable talking about it with me. I have nothing against Max. I barely knew her. But I can see how much this is eating you up inside. You can’t let it destroy you. For better or worse, that chapter is over now. And you’re not alone. I’m here for you._

_Anyway hope I didn’t scare you off. Please call me when you can. Wanna hear your voice. Love you._

_-Stella_

Fingers trembling over the phone screen. Why? It’s nothing new. Warren clicks the screen off and shoves it back in his pocket. Deep breath.

Steady smattering; keyboard keys. The waiting room isn’t really a room at all. More like a coat closet between Ray’s office and the rest of the floor. Warren remembers walking through it with Max twenty minutes ago. The sheer number of paper-thin monitors – some of them huddled together – was astounding. A conference room to the left, door ajar. People coming up and down a stairwell to the right, holding clear plastic bags, wearing gloves. The place felt like a foreign nation. Max, as he noticed with no surprise, was perfectly comfortable here. He wasn’t. He isn’t now.

He can hear them talking inside.

Why bring out Stella’s last email? It’s a week old. Two days before Max’s accident. He’d held off on replying because of that little bit at the end. But now, it’s a whole different matter. Now, he’s not even sure where to begin. But it’s the first time he’d felt the urge to read it again. First time since... seeing Max. Definitely not anything to unpack there. Certainly not.

He swipes it open again. The email is a week old. No missed calls from Stella. She’s been giving him space. Maybe she realized the ‘thin ice’ really did crack there. Maybe it’s guilt.

But is it guilt driving him now, as his hands move to open up a new reply box, as he taps out a response with his thumbs after the most chaotic few days of his life?

_Hey Stella_

_Sorry I’ve been away. Max had an accident. Was in the hospital for a while. Fine now_

Okay... that’s a start. What next? Hey Stella, I was visited by a second Max from another timeline, so the anomaly on Wells’ farm might just be an interdimensional gate. Let’s not get too sci-fi though, like you said. It’s probably no coincidence.

_I’m ok too. Just been hectic taking care of Max._

No no; get rid of that.

_Just been hectic with all this crazy weather and the no job, lol. You’re right, I blew all my savings on the Metal Structure Kaitaishouki RX-93 Nu. Can’t believe it costs more than my car these days. Homeless shelter chowder is surprisingly good._

There you go; some humor always dissipates the tartness in the air. Doesn’t it?

_I think we should meet._

That’s a dangerous game. He asks himself what he’s doing. Deletes it.

_We should talk soon. Can’t right now though. I’ll call you later. Gotta figure out how to eat my gundam without dying._

Hits send. No mention of the anomaly Stella discussed. He can’t think about that right now. It’d be too much. A massive weight comes off his chest. He didn’t even know that was there, for the longest time.

The door swings open and he kicks to his feet; Maxine walks out of the office. Looking down. Very down. But she perks up when she sees him. He’s happy to see her not close up again. He was wholly expecting it.

“Sorry!” She comes up and does that thing she does. Hugs herself in a defensive way. Except that now, one arm is in a cast – so she just rubs it with the other. “Are you mad?”

“No.” He lies. “What’d you talk about?”

She considers complete honesty. It would take more time to consider. He’s looking right at her. She smiles.

“Let’s get outta here first. I need some air.”

The ashfall marches on. It’s only been going for a few hours. They step out on the sidewalk and people are hooded, umbrellas out under a sea of phone cameras, landscape and portrait alike; people picking up the charcoal black sediment and tossing it between fingers, coating skin and asphalt and concrete and metal – the city suffocates, but not without arousal. Humans choke and cover their mouths; shied their eyes and run for cover, but can’t help but marvel at the anomalous discharge from above. Warren squints up at the sky a second time, shirt pulled over his mouth and nose. Something is off.

“We should call Kate,” Maxine proposes; voice is muffled – she’s covering herself too. Warren doesn’t hear it.

“You see that?” He motions to the sky, voice loud over the sound of passing cars and clamoring voices. Maxine squints up at it too. “See the clouds? Something’s not right here.”

“What do you mean?” She has to be loud too. Her old jacket has no hood, so it gets in her hair. Warren forgot his umbrella too. They should get to the car soon.

“Well, you – usually, ash fallout – you can see it in the clouds. But, uh… sky looks – pretty normal here.”

Maxine doesn’t understand, but gives it a chance. She chances another glance at the sky. Looks like the usual gloomy Seattle rain dome – but that shouldn’t be the case. She’s never seen what “ash clouds” could possibly look like – but surely, they’d be at least a little different than normal rain clouds. Right?

But no; the sky seems untouched by the precipitation, ashes tumbling from an untouched void beneath pristine clouds. Where are they coming from?

“Let’s get to the car, Warren.” She can’t stay in the plumes any more. Getting hard to breathe. Warren agrees.

Car door slams shut; parking garage quiet. Someone revs up a muscle car three rows behind them. Warren coughs to clear his passages; it’s starting to burn a bit. Maxine’s looking worse.

“Hey – you alright?” He says through heaving coughs. She’s trying to say “yes” but a paroxysm of coughs and sneezes won’t let her. They both have watering eyes for a few minutes; Warren considers rolling the window down, but it’s not an underground lot. Just the AC, then.

“Hope K-Kate made it - _*cough* -_ indoors,” she finally manages. “We should call her.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that.” He sniffs and wipes his eyes, pulling out his phone and dialing her number. “Jesus. This is - _*hrrmhhrrm*_ \- Fuck! This is so weird, we’re not… we didn’t get any eruptions in the state, I would’ve known. Everyone would have. Probably a… jet stream… updraft from the… Pacific…”

He mumbles to himself more than her, really. Maxine remembers how often he’d get like this. She used to find it cute. Maybe she still does.

*

“No, no, Miriam – my girl – you need to come to a combat gym with me. It’s a dying art here! Get some lessons in before it’s dead. I keep telling all my friends, nobody cares.”

Miriam’s leaning on a desk, holding her bag, laughing at the idea of strapping up for mixed martial arts with detective FIroza. Speaking of which, she stands across from Miriam with a cup of cold coffee she’d been neglecting for the last hour.

“I bet you could throw down anyone in that gym,” Malec interjects from the side, addressing her. His indomitable simping spirit seeps through the cracks in his feeble mask of nonchalance. Firoza notes it, as does everyone else, every time he does it.

“Except me,” Jun interrupts, before Firoza can answer. “I’ll take anyone in there. I’ll school them.”

His serious face throws everybody off for a good second, before they all crack up.

“I’ll think about it,” says Miriam, pushing back a fold of her hijab. “Might come in handy these days. With Malec around.” Shoots him a stink eye.

“I – wha – I never–!” He’s choking on his words before she waves it aside as another joke. “I meant you’d make a good sparring partner.”

“Oh!” His face lights up. “You think so?”

“If by sparring, you mean a Bob replacement,” Firoza sneers at him. Malec throws up his hands.

“Aye, you know what, I’m an easy target ‘cause I’m nice.”

“You sayin’ I’m not nice?” she growls back. Miriam laughs some more. “No, but really – all of you should come.”

“I don’t see Maxine throwing kicks and punches,” Miriam notes.

“Yeah!” Malec shakes his head, arms folded, coming back into the circle. “No, she’s, uh – yeah, no.”

“I think she’d do fine, just needs a proper hand.”

“She probably won’t want to, though,” Jun points out.

“Yeah…”

“–you’re right–”

“–not her thing…”

The office is near-empty. Few straggling conversations by the door. Couple of monitors still awake. Night has fallen beyond the sliding glass windows, where ash no longer clogs the sky. It’s been a long day, Firoza notes. Meeting Maria Flores takes a lot out of a day. Even if it doesn’t last that long.

A door kicks open in the upper corner of the office. Maoro’s stepping out, yanking his coat on, fumbling with his car keys. Firoza averts her eyes. He doesn’t.

“What’re you all doin’ still here? It’s late.”

“Just catching up,” Miriam replies, turning around with a smile. “You should try it.”

“Not today.” Big smile on his face. “I’m helping Crisa practice for a talent show. Piano.”

“That’s so adorable! She’ll at least come in second place.” Jun’s enthusiastic tone throws off the absurd statement – but he doesn’t seem to mind, if he is at all aware. Maoro squints, decides it’s just Jun and nothing more.

“Uh… thanks. Thank you, yes. I, too, hope she’s at _least,_ second place. Ideally first.”

“Ideally!” Jun nods, even bigger grin. They’re all a bit amused. Nobody ever addresses him, and all that he is.

“Well, catch up all you want, just don’t be late tomorrow.”

“Never am!” Malec calls after him as he heads for the exit.

“Twice a week!” Maoro corrects from the outer hall, no longer visible.

“He exaggerates.” Malec chuckles, slides his laptop bag over his shoulder. “Speaking of which, though – I gotta split too.”

“We’ll miss you.” Firoza tilts her head and smiles at him, knowing he’ll be all awkward about it. And he is.

“Uh – yeah, I mean – you’ll see me tomorrow, not much to miss. Ya know? Alright – bye!”

“Bye!”

“Wait – I’m coming too. I have to be done.” Jun packs up himself – not much to do, really – and waves to the women standing across from each other. Malec waits for him and they walk out together.

“Wonder what they’re talking about.” Miriam turns back around to face her.

“Couple a’ specimens.”

Firoza’s jovial mood slips off her face, now that it’s just the two of them. The remaining stragglers leave the office too. It’s quiet now. Just the humming of sleeping PCs, the rush of cars on streets below wafting up through a cracked window somewhere.

“You alright?” Miriam takes note of her state.

“Yeah, just – with this whole McGrier thing, you know…”

“I know.” She sighs. “Can’t believe our case was – basically getting thrown out. We had enough to buy us some time, at least.”

“Yeah…”

“Whatever… with the new stuff you and Maoro found, though? If that doesn’t have traction, I don’t know what will.”

Firoza licks her lips; unreasonably dry. “You hear about the data breach?”

Miriam’s eyes widen. “No. What breach?”

So Maoro hadn’t told anyone else. “The McGrier case files were accessed by… somebody. We think it’s an ex-cop, name of Maurice Whitaker. Used to work in this city, not here though.”

“Why would anyone-?”

“That’s… the big question, my girl. Why indeed.”

“You gonna bring him in?”

“If we could find him, maybe.” She folds her arms in, looking tired. “And even if we did – he covered his tracks. Building a case is… slim.”

“Seems like that’s all we get these days.” Miriam pushes off the desk. Firoza looks almost sad for a second – but hides it immediately.

“Heading out too?”

She smiles. “I probably should. My family is… still not okay with a ‘woman being out at night alone’. I gotta wear them down slow.”

“I’d protect you,” Firoza says quietly, grinning. Miriam visibly blushes and laughs.

“I’m – sure you would, you look like you can.” She gives her one last look. Shadow of a smile. Before turning around the desk to walk out. Firoza’s still leaning on hers.

“Drive safe.”

“You too!”

Firoza takes the bus. Occasional Uber. Not that Miriam needs to know. She lets the exchange remain where it is. And now it’s just her.

She considers it some more. She’s been considering it all day. A tireless axe, hammering away at her insides. Every time she comes close to the idea, it hurts. Physical pain – a punch to the gut, the swooping feeling of missing a step going down, times a thousand.

_He exaggerates._

Is that all? Is that really it? She wants it to be. More than anything in her life. But even if there’s the smallest chance that it’s something more – that there exist a depth to his words more sinister than mysterious – she can’t let it go. She shouldn’t.

_No one’s infallible._

Not even Maria Flores. Not Maxine Caulfield. Or Miriam, or Malec, or Jun – or even herself. Least of all, Vincent Maoro, the man who taught her how to live again.

It’s a truth she’d rather not learn. Maybe that’s why the most obvious signs flew over her head. Willful ignorance? At her age?

You learn something new every day.

No – it’s not going to work. She’ll have to make the call.

Phone comes up to her ear; she’s dialed in a number manually. Not saved in her contacts. It rings thrice, just like it always did. A gruff voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Arko?”

“… Kurvi? This Kurvi?”

“Guilty.” She kicks off her desk and begins pacing up and down the aisle of monitors.

“Oh my gosh! Where did you come from!? I legitimately thought you died.”

“I kinda did. But – you know, if Jesus can pull it off…”

“Ha-ha, cute. Haven’t lost your touch I see. So… uh – how are you?”

She pockets one hand and leans on one leg. Doesn’t feel like pacing any more.

“I’m good – listen. Are you still a PI?”

“… Yes. You got a job for me?”

“Yeah. Might be… ongoing. Not sure how long. And it’s – personal. Really personal.”

“Ooo…kay…”

“I just need you to shadow someone for a while and tell me everything you find.”

“E- _everything?”_

She chuckles. “No – just what’s relevant. I’ll explain later. We should meet up. Tomorrow?”

“I’m not in town.”

“Neither am I. I work in Seattle now.”

“Sea- wow! That’s where I am!”

“I know. That’s why I kept your number.”

She hears him hiss from the other end. “You – kept tabs on me, didn’t you?”

“Gotta keep your friends close.”

“I don’t appreciate that. Mostly ‘cause I never noticed. Damn.”

“Hey – you can save your flattery for when we meet. I’ll text you time and place.”

“Alright. Hey – give me a name, so I can get started. It’ll speed up the process. Who are we shadowing?”

She finds herself shutting her eyes. Disgust? Fear? Or just overwhelmed? She considers backtracking. Tell him you’re sorry, tell him not to worry about it. It’s not too late yet. You can still walk away from this.

But even as she opens her mouth to speak, her eyes find themselves drawn to the window. Something’s happening.

“Hello? Kurvi? You there?”

She walks over to the glass. The city skyline towers above her floor – they’re not high up at all. But the night sky still peers over jagged edges and blinking red spires. And it’s green. No – blue. No, wait – purple. All of it. Shifting lights, like bands, strings, ribbons – spanning over the city’s tallest towers, coating the clouds, perforating them. Firoza stares on for a good few seconds. The sky is alight.

“Hellooo?”

Clears her throat. Looks away. “He’s… Vincent… Maoro. M-A-O-R-O. He’s a sergeant here in Seattle PD. 16th division. He’s… my boss.”

Few seconds’ silence on the other end.

“Holy – I mean, just – okay. Okay. Sure. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

The line dies out. She wonders if she should go home and throw up. There are washrooms here too. But she’s rooted to the spot. Drowning under the weight of this absurd illumination above. She checks other windows to her left and right – the lights span in every direction, every crevice of the heavens, as far as she can see.

A quiet forest stands abandoned between human roads and cars, the angered voices of Sean Diaz and Nathan Prescott lost, gone with the arid leaves and anxious ravens that fly above, unnerved by the presence of the eerie glow of the night sky –a thing that should never be. Ravens fly and scream, doe shift among the trees, and wolves howl in fear and rage, huddling close, lest their children stray far. Sean knows, as he watches the strange aura leak through the tiny window in his new prison, that Daniel might be seeing this too. Somewhere, somehow – his brother lives. The wolves penetrate the wind and the earth with their sirens – and Nathan hears it too, one hand chained to a radiator, and even though he can’t see the light like Sean can, he feels within. Something new – something changing. A force present that wasn’t here before.

Kate Marsh sits alone in her car, far from home, far from work, far from friends she thought she knew well. Their words through closed doors – sinful of her to pry, and yet… misunderstandings are common, but maybe she doesn’t want that answer. She toys with the tiny golden cross on her chest, dangling from a chain around her neck. Always hidden away under layers of clothing, but now it catches the light as she turns it. Gleaming green and white, the metal glows.

How strange, that such light should spill into her lap from above. She gets out of her car to witness it. A dark and empty street, her car lights off – but none of that matters, none of it’s relevant. The sky above, darkened by clouds at night, hangs brighter than it’s ever been at this hour, washing over her. She stares, and her eyes sting. Voices and years of people she loved, tell her it’s a message. A sign. That’s not an answer she finds comforting either. The only comfort she knows, is the firm metal of the car door, which she grasps with all her might.

Warren Graham and Max Caulfield both sit in his living room, TV on, sharing a bowl of pretzels. For once, it’s peaceful, even if it’s temporary. Max doesn’t have to think about the tumult that chases her. Warren puts aside the bleeding hole in time and space, that he knows exists. But even though it’s brief, a creeping feeling washes over his skin, familiar, exhilarating, terrifying – something he knows, means something else. A shift in the state of things. A new presence. New, and yet – so very old. He turns to Max to see if she feels it too. But she’s fixed on the screen, half a pretzel hanging out of her mouth. She’s oblivious. And she’s at peace. He turns, slowly, to the balcony doors to his right.

“Holy shit. Max.”

She turns to him, and then to where he’s looking.

They both get off their seats. Inch toward the balcony. Door slides open. They step out in the chilly autumn wind. The sky is alive with aurora borealis, seemingly impossible, and ultimately ever-present. The beams shift and dance above them, tantalizing, taunting – quiet.

This was no storm. This was the gentle breeze that lifted hairs off your neck. The steady ocean rhythm dying away, the tide pulling back and the sands falling into deadly silence. An unassuming snowfall on a day when it never snows. A sky bearing lights that should ever exist.

Warren seems to know what this is about. He’s worried Max might not. Worried she might have fallen into fog once more. But when she takes his hand, and grips it tight, wide eyes fixed on the lights above – he can’t help but be at least a bit reassured. Her fear of the truth means more to him, more than he could ever imagine, than her oblivion.


	9. Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and Joyce touch base about their mission. Maoro and Miriam make an unnerving discovery. Sean and Nathan come face to face with a force of nature they can't explain.

“Smoke?”

“Mhm.”

Metal click and a stiff hiss. Jets of blue fire set ablaze the stick in her mouth, and she puffs out fat gentle plumes of corrosive nicotine, sighing in relief. Cigarette comes out between two fingers and he pockets the lighter.

“What is this stuff?” She scowls, twirling the stick around, eyes unimpressed.

“Kent Lights!” He decides to light one himself. “What, you don’t like ‘em?”

She shrugs. Keeps smoking. “Not really.” Another puff, another sigh. “No, wait – it’s growin’ on me.”

He laughs. Dry, cold, but a laugh nonetheless. Eyes don’t crinkle, though his smile cracks through a neglected beard.

“You know, Joyce...” Cigarette muffles his speech as he lights it, bone-dry lips clasping onto the filter as it hangs and bounces. “Kent’s one of the biggest sticks in the market.”

“Oh, yeah?” She’s not really listening. He knows she isn’t. They both look ahead, leaning on a wooden fence, watching cars go by. A sandy beach grips onto the asphalt across the road, spreading out from the edge into a narrow beach, waves crashing in steady rhythm. The water’s not as blue as Frank remembers. Maybe he’s just romanticizing.

“You know how they got that big?”

She scoffs. “I’m sure you’re gonna tell me, Frank.”

He sucks in a pile of smoke the size of his whole head, tobacco glaring angry orange against the brittle light of dusk, dissolving down to precarious ash. Lets it out through his nose. Pungent. Acrid. Delicious.

“See, back in the 50s, cigs didn’t use to have filters on ‘em, you know that? So – get this – fuckin’ Reader’s Digest wrote some articles ‘bout how it’s all cancerous and everything, and people started freakin’ out, so _Kent_ here–” he takes the stick out of his mouth, holds it like a trophy – “they said, ‘hey – we got filters on _our_ products. We got _the best fuckin’ filters._ We are healthy as can be. Come get our cigs. Give us your money. Be healthy. Be _good_ smokers.”

Joyce giggles, looking down as she smokes, grinding a shoe into the damp grassy dirt. “That’s stupid. That didn’t fucking work.”

“It worked.” Frank looks away again, puffing. “It worked like a goddamn charm. Raked in the heavy stacks for ‘em.”

“That’s horseshit, Frank.”

“Nope – no, it’s not, hey, you never seen Mad Men? First episode? It’s all about _advertising_ , Joyce.”

Joyce smiles an old, wrinkled, haggard smile. Pushes thinning hair back behind her ear. Takes another puff before flicking it to the grass.

“Yeah, well – the truth always comes out sooner or later. Filter... or no filter.” She stomps it dead in the wet grass – not that it needed any help. The low fog had permeated everyone’s legs, leached into the soil, damp and cold – aching knees and soft mud between the wood and concrete of the town.

“Always, huh?” Frank doesn’t quite look at her – just turns his head toward her, looking at a patch of asphalt road in the distance. “Think you’re gonna count on that this time?”

Deep sigh. Joyce shakes her head with resolute confidence. “No.”

“I should hope not.” Another long, heavy puff. It’s almost dead. He missed his cigars. Expensive and out of reach these days. But they certainly last longer.

“Was it – was it hard, getting them here?” Her voice goes quiet.

“What, all the guns?” Frank says loudly, smirking. Joyce gives the area a panic-stricken scan before glaring back at him. He laughs.

“Relax, nobody here to listen. No, actually, it was – pretty easy for once. My guy didn’t ask too many questions. He needed the money.” He flicks his own into the ground too, albeit without the same treatment. Frank’s cigarette gets to die slowly, angry embers moistened into submission by dew-laden grass. He watches it go.

“Speakin’ of which...”

He comes up next to Joyce, leaning on the fence with her. Reaches into his coat. Small – dark – cold on Joyce’s skin when he lets it drop in her hands. Heavier than it looks.

“That one’s yours.”

The barrel’s small. Light. Dark matte-coated steel. She turns it around a bit. Looks down the barrel. Swings open the cylinder – five chambers. Empty.

“That’s a... uh, Ruger. Ruger 38.” Frank introduces it with no ceremony, but she catches him glance at it with a shadow of yearning.

Joyce nods her head, biting her lip. Eyebrows up in mild surprise. “Looks expensive.”

“It is. Anti-stack trigger, filed, non-traceable. See that nice copper on the cylinder? It’s nice, those are rare. S’a good piece.”

“Seems to be so... looks like you’re fond of it.” She grins a bit, looking up at him through her brows. He side-eyes her before gazing back at the sea.

“It’s mine. Well, it’s – one o’ mine. I got a better one.”

“Mhm, did ya?”

“Yeah. Too small for me anyway. You keep it. I’ll get you the rounds when we all get started.” 

She appreciates it. More so than he knows. Heavy sigh. “Goes without saying, all of this isn’t charity.” Joyce pockets the weapon. “You will be compensated.”

Frank laughs again. “All due respect, Joyce, it’s a little out of your budget.”

“That... wasn’t the agreement!” She pushes off the fence they’re both leaning on. Turns to face him – he’s still looking away. “You said you’d give me a quote. Correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So why’d you get me stuff I can’t afford?”

“Because what you can afford won’t do shit. You want _all_ these kids trained, right? Not just two or three?”

She scoffs. Arms up in the air. “I’ll just have to make installments, then.”

“Joyce.”

“Frank.”

He shakes his head. Slight smirk. “It’s... not... _charity_ , it’s – Jesus. It’s a favor, I’m doin’ you a favor. Alright?”

She crosses her arms. “I don’t remember asking for favors from you.”

“I know.”

“So what’s this about, then?”

His arms jerk to his pockets – reaching for yet another smoke. But he knows he has to cut down. Quitting outright was too hard. Reducing his intake might help. One step at a time. The little steps matter. Small actions mean something. Why couldn’t Joyce just see that?

“I want to.”

He finally gives her a glance. Irrevocably sad eyes, but beyond that – a question. Desperate, pleading, almost obsessive – a question he asks her with every fiber of his being. She sees it. She doesn’t want to – she wants to stay angry, stay blind, stay drowning in the tumult she’s all too familiar with. But she sees it. She wants to answer it, even. But she’s not sure what that question is. Frank looks away in a second, refusing to glance back.

She sighs. “Well, alright. Don’t come cryin’ to me when your wallet’s in trouble.”

“Uh-huh.” Unable to give in to his primal desires, he resorts to rubbing his arms. Hugging himself. Might be nice to have someone else do the hugging. He’d never allow himself the luxury.

“So... your, uh – my trainer guy is gonna be here in a couple o’ days, he said.” Frank sniffs and kicks off the fence, casually pacing a few steps. Arms still wrapped around himself.

“You said he’d come tomorrow, I was meaning to ask about him. What happened?”

“Ah, some – you hear about these protests? With the people, with the – the – the kids with the red face paint, or whatever?”

Joyce squints, brows crossed. “I... might’ve seen something on the news. Yeah. Why?”

“All over the west coast. God knows what they want. Seattle’s bad, I hear. They might be showing up in Oregon too. Anyway – my buddy had to take a motel for the night ‘cause they blocked up the roads. He’s not cool with drivin’ at night. Says it... fucks with his... sleep schedule. Or somethin’.”

“Oh.” Very disappointing. She was hoping to get started as soon as possible. Very, very disappointing.

“Yeah, no, that’s – sleep schedule. Important stuff.” 

He laughs his dry laugh again. “You don’t have to pretend like it’s okay. It’s fuckin’ not okay. I’m pissed too.”

“Nothing ever came of being pissed.”

And yet, it angers Frank – how calm she is. About all this.

“It pisses _me_ off, Joyce.” Still pacing, hugging himself. “This shit happening _again._ To _you._ This town is fucking cursed.”

She chuckles. “Maybe I’m the one who’s cursed. The town’s been trying to get rid of me. Ever think about that?”

“No?” He sees the humor. Doesn’t appreciate it. She can tell.

“Well, Frank, we’re taking a stand. You’re here. David’s on his way. It won’t be like before.”

“No, it will not.” His hands move to his pockets. Glaring at the wet grass as he speaks. “Your people find nothing new?”

“I get reports every hour.” She pats her right pocket. “But there’s just a few of us. More, now you’re here. Cops here are just for show, so we do what we can... I’d be out there myself, but – the kids need me back home.”

It doesn’t satiate Frank. He doesn’t shift his glare off the grass. “I swear. We’re gonna bring that fucker down. And we’re gonna find Jane. I’m... I...”

He trails off. Maybe the sound of his own voice was too vindictive for his own taste. Or maybe he realizes he’s standing next to Joyce. The parade of guilt never impressed her.

“Forget it.”

Joyce rubs her hands together. Getting cold. “Come over for dinner tonight.” 

It wasn’t even a question. Frank is a little off-balance. Blinks twice. “Uh – well, I – I got food in the RV, you don’t have to–”

“Frank.” She nods with shut eyes, waving him aside without lifting a finger. “Come over. Alright?”

“I really don’t wanna impose–”

“You’re not gonna let me pay you, you better let me make you dinner.”

“I–” Frank shuts his trap at the look on her face. It’s really not worth putting his foot down. Especially when it comes to Joyce. He opts for acceptance.

“You sure... with the kids and all?” He walks back to the fence again. “Might not be good for them to see me with you, y’know?”

Joyce turns to look behind her. Frank’s eyes follow hers. Past the fence, the sidewalk and the closed hardware store behind them. A town, familiar and lost all at once, rises before them on the slope of a gentle hill, curving up and away from white sand and grey waves they now have their backs to. They scan the uphill sprawl of quaint old homes. Fresher, newer buildings – imposing over the dying decades and their peeling walls. Restaurants, pubs, little shops. A sprawling school campus, red bricks and black tiles, looms at the peak of the incline. Thick forest scrapes the sky at the edge, a steady wall shielding this town from the rest of the world, a strange place with its own air, its own light and wind – even a gravity that’s denser on the bones. Frank knows these trees. Knows how they cascade, rise and fall like finger-painted waves in an ocean, to a cliff to his left, where the lighthouse stands. He’d left this behind long ago. Never thought he’d be here again. At least he’s not alone. Not like Joyce had been, for so long. Perhaps she is, still.

Somewhere in Arcadia Bay, in the smoky autumn dusk, among torn flyers borne by wind and spray-painted anguish of days long gone, stands Joyce Price. Her life a testament to the absolute and irrevocable defiance, in the face of an unrelenting, malicious invocation of despair. Now, the ocean wind stroking her ears is calmer, warmer – weaker, she thinks. A curse that’s grown weary of trying to break her. It would not. She would not let anything break her.

And yet, as Frank looks to her, something akin to awe, he sees beyond her walls, her wounds, and even her fury – to the center of her. It’s easy to see when she bares it so, her eyes making no effort to veil the truth. A mother still, who seeks the best for her children. She sighs.

“They... should be in study right now. Like hell they’ll be followin’ the rules. The nannies are gonna break their own backs keeping those tykes in line. Probably won’t show up to my quarters, but if they do... don’t you worry, Frank...” She looks to him and cracks a hefty grin. “They don’t bite unless I want ’em to. You’ll be fine.”

He chuckles into his shirt, turning on his heel back to the ocean. The sun’s final grasp on red-lined clouds fades away on the horizon. It’s getting colder.

“Guess I’ll see you then.” He stands up straight and his hands go in his pockets. Wants the confines of his RV to prepare for this dining event. Joyce scoffs.

“It’s past eight, Frank. Practically dinner time. Might as well come along.”

“Oh...” He didn’t anticipate this either. Tries to make up a panicked excuse. “I, uh – I’m not dressed for dinner. Gotta go back and...”

“Did I say there’s a dress code?” Joyce walks past him to the trail path, leading away from the beach and up into the town. Turns to wait for him. “Hm?”

Frank heaves a final sigh and lets himself smile. “No. No, don’t think you did.”

He joins her in the stroll back up to her home. The wind grows colder still, as they walk. And the shore behind them, just a bit louder. Louder than it should be.

“Just as well, ‘cause, you know... all my clothes look like this.”

“I know, Frank.”

*

_“I feel so... extraordinary... someone’s got a hold of me... Get this feelin’, I’m in motion... sudden sense... of liberty...”_

A bittersweet jangle of old steel strings cuts shallow gashes in the air. Low fire spouting embers. Bare feet in wilted grass, choked by a good few centimeters of ash. A clearing’s been made, off to the side of a freeway, and a camp of people is alive and thriving, brushing away the ashfall to give life back to the earth. Three trailers parked in a circle, tent poles out, barbeque grill searing hot, smell of hot dogs and beef carrying over even to the speeding drunkards on the road, quite a distance away. The wind is strong tonight, but the camp sits in the leeward shadow of an aging cliffside, barring them from the harsher stings of the autumn chill. The night is young, deepening fast.

_“I don’t care... cause I’m not there... I don’t care if I’m here tomorrow...”_

Small crowd circles around the fire, squatting on milk crates, cuddling on the earth, or laying flat and gazing up to the depths of deep space, here where city lights don’t stain the sky. Everyone’s listening – even the people off to the side, cooking, eating, laughing, talking in low voices. The music reaches them all.

_“Again and again... I’ve taken too much... of the things... they costs you so much...”_

A woman in bright yellow, dark hair flowing over the old polished wood, plays her guitar for herself, looking down, eyes shut as she sings. Every now and then, she looks up and smiles to her audience, and glances with tumultuous adoration at a man sitting across the fire. He watches her, head hanging low between his shoulders, perched on a crate. Hands fiddling with an empty beer bottle. He flashes the ghost of a smile before her eyes rescind their generosity.

_“... Used to think that the day would never come... see the light in the shade of the morning sun...”_

The rest of the song is drowned out. Wheels. An engine. Louder than the cars on the freeway. Everyone’s head jerks around – a van has pulled off the road, approaching their camp. The man, so lost in her voice, heaves a sigh and gets to his feet, not giving her a second glance. Her song fades away and she resorts to a hesitant, quieter strum.

The van comes to a halt, doors kicking open on both sides. The man rushes to them and the newcomers rush around to the back of the van, swinging those doors open too.

“You got a doctor here?” One of the men ask him.

“I got some first-aid–”

“We don’t know how bad it is–”

“Yeah we do, he got fuckin’ shot in the leg–”

“Let me look at him. Open the door.”

He approaches the rear. Looks inside. Eyes wide.

“Evening, Drew.” A man sits in darkness, shirtless, blood dripping from his calf. His ghostly eyes, somehow brighter than the rest of him, leer at Francis from inside the van.

“Vaas.” Drew gulps. “See you made it out.” Eyes follow down to his leg. “Who shot you?”

“Get me a drink first. And a shirt.”

He reaches for a hand, getting to his one foot. The three men help him off the van. Fresh blood leaks into ashen grass when he hops down.

“Hnng – fuck. Heh. Son of a bitch...” Vaas gives his mangled leg another look, grinning. He looks gaunter than Drew remembers. Eyes hollower still. Lines heavier. And something unhinged about him. He doesn’t like it.

“Fucked you up good.” Drew takes Vaas’s arm over his neck. “There. Lean on it – there you go. My trailer’s that one. Come on. Ey – Rufus! Bring some burgers in.”

Drew turns to the two men. “You with Amrit’s crew?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the rest of you?”

“Bout twenty miles ahead? Some of em didn’t make it out. We split up to bring Vaas here.”

Drew nods. “Get to your base. Report back. I want individual confirmation before 6 AM tomorrow. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The van’s doors slam shut and it careens back toward the road, roaring out of sight in mere seconds.

The crowd is silent. All eyes on Vaas, music long gone. Hissing and sizzling of meat from the grill is all that permeates the air. Vaas scans them once, before looking down at the ground once more, watching blood thicken the dirt between his toes.

The couch is soft and warm, lights golden, smell of beef seeping through the steelwork of the vehicle. He’s hungry. Very hungry. He says nothing.

Drew is down at his legs, crouched on his heels. He’s a large man, even when squatting. There’s a tray of tools on a coffee table next to him. More blades than Vaas expected.

“I’m gonna check the wound. Need to cut this off.” He grabs a pair of scissors and gently snips off the old prison garb, caked with blood and soot. Peels it off an old, but still very fresh wound. Calf is ripped open. Vaas makes no sound when it’s taken off. He watches, unblinking. Drew notices one of his hands – balled into a fist.

“Exit wound... no bone... actually just grazed you. Could’ve been a lot deeper... so that’s good. We’re gonna clean this up, alright?”

Vaas says nothing. He’s watching the blood drip, rolling down his pale skin, matted with red and brown and purple splotches. It rolls, and it rolls, and it tumbles onto the carpet he’s resting his feet on.

“Alright, lie down for me. The couch, on the couch. Just lie down – no, on your stomach. Yes. It’s on the back of your leg – gently. Careful. Yeah – there you go. Just like that. Now I’m gonna... uh...”

He takes a roll of gauze, rips a long piece off. Loops it around the curtain rail over the trailer’s window behind the couch. Ties a tight knot.

“Here – gonna put the leg through here. Can you see? Yeah – careful – yes – good. How long ago were you shot?”

Vaas takes a moment to answer. His eyes are glassy. Face half-buried in leather. “Twenty... twenty minutes.”

Drew tries to keep any panic out of his voice. Ripping up more gauze and getting out some strange little pads. A bottle of some liquid. A long black rope with a little metal handle.

“I’m gonna tourniquet your leg. It will hurt.”

It does. The rope comes around his thigh, tight, tighter than he’d even expected. No sound out of his mouth. He simply breathes.

Sound of a bottle being popped open.

“Alright. Now we clean. This will sting.”

It does. Very much. Transparent, it gushes over the wound, a soft cloth rubbing down the dried blood. Fire seeps into the open gash. Vaas makes no sound. His eyes fixed on what little he can see, to his side. The side walls of the trailer. A chest of drawers nailed to the floor. A lava lamp. A little cactus. Some papers strewn about on top. Window behind it, blinds shut.

“You’re taking this well.”

No answer. A stone face remains impassive on the couch, eyes rolling to meet Drew as he glances at Vaas.

“They started counting escapees.” He keeps wiping the wound, washing, drying. “Caught some chatter on their BTAC. Two more shootouts with the cops. No word on when Sela’s crew is getting to base. Think they all made it out alright. I got a call – they’re upstate. Hiding out for now.”

“As they should be.” Vaas speaks, looking forward into nothing. “Did Prescott keep is word?”

Drew gives a wide nod, half-smiling. “Ten million. Like you said.”

“Good.”

“Christ only knows how you swing that shit, Vaas.” He starts prepping the pads. Placing them across the wound.

“He wouldn’t know.”

“So... what about his son?”

For the first time, Vaas heaves a sigh. A sign of expression other than quiet speech.

“He got away.”

A look of shock and immediate resignation. Drew has a job to do. Focus on the wound.

“Got... away. Okay.”

“It was... my fault, really. I... miscalculated.”

“Doesn’t sound like you. Prescott’s gonna want to talk to you about that. I’ll set up a call.” He places the two pads across the wound, wrapping them tight with gauze. “That’s all we can do in a trailer park. It’ll have to do. Think I got crutches too... you want something for the pain? You can, uh – turn around now. Just keep the leg up for a bit.”

Vaas rotates on the couch, his leg dangling, and places both hands across his bare chest. Thinking pose. Eyes digging into the ceiling.

“So what now?”

“Now... you’re going to wait for confirmation... from all the crews.”

Drew begins cleaning up the blood around the floor. The carpet would have to be thrown out. He’s quite fond of it.

“And you’ll ask each and every one of them if they picked up Nathan Prescott and Sean Diaz.”

His head jerks up. “Who the fuck is Sean Diaz?”

“Guy who shot me.”

“... Sean Diaz. Shot you?”

“He was helping Nathan. They... hrhmm!- they, uh... presumably... got out together.”

“I see.” Drew hands him a cold bottle of water from the minifridge. Vaas gulps it down in seconds.

“Another.”

And another comes. And another after that – this one, only half-downed. He sets it down on the floor next to two empty bottles.

Drew takes a seat on the coffee table. “Helping Nathan Prescott... by shooting you? Why? Why shoot you? Helping him do what?”

“Not your concern.”

“I just patched you up, so yeah, I’d say it is my concern.”

Another sigh. “It was... uh, lapse in judgement. Really. I was trying to knock him out. Might’ve gotten carried away.”

“Also doesn’t sound like you. What’s going on?”

Vaas cracks a smile, his twisted face with sharp jaw and crooked nose contorting the smattering of little scars around his eyes.

“You feel like playing doctor today, huh?”

“Think I’m doing a good job so far.”

“Eh, coulda cleaned it better. Or given me a damn shirt.”

“You won’t fit in my shirts.”

Vaas chuckles again. “I need a gun. Nothing special. One of the 9s will do.”

“We sent ‘em all out to the crews.”

Vaas looks around, shocked. “All of them?”

“And the 40s. Big operation. You wanted assurance, so did Prescott.”

“Hmm, yeah – guess that makes sense...”

“You know what – I got just the thing.” Drew kicks off and walks down to the back of the vehicle. Cupboards sliding, papers rustling. Vaas awaits with unblinking eyes. He returns and sits back down, holding a gleaming silver weapon with both hands.

“Aaah.” Notable change in Vaas’s face; bit of a glimmer in his eyes. He takes it in one hand and turns it between his palms. Feeling the metal.

“.44 Mag, P&R Smith.” Drew’s talking through a shadow of a grin; he likes it too. “Old school thing, thought you might want it.”

“Where the hell did you get this? I know you didn’t buy it.”

“Gift from Julius. Token of… solidarity, or… some shit he said, I dunno.”

“He just wants to cash in a favor later.” Vaas swings the chamber open. Clicks it back into place. Repeats, chuckling. “Been a while… since I felt that pin slide. You got rounds?”

“I’ll get ‘em for you.”

“Good.” He puts it on the table. Its gleam catching the ceiling light is uncanny; strong. He loves it already.

Two knocks on the door. “Burgers.” A gruff voice states.

“Door’s open.”

A few minutes pass and Drew watches Vaas eat, in his awkward twisted stance.

“Been so... goddamn long. Since I had me a decent burger. Fuck me. This is good. Jesus, what’s in that sauce? I want this recipe. Tell Rufus to bring it to me.”

“Try – try not to – you’re gonna – hey, just slow down. Here. Shit... here, use a pillow. Alright? Yeah? There you go... Gotta keep it still...”

Three patties later, Vaas demands yet another bottle of water. “And some Advil.”

“So... what’s the plan with the Smith?” Drew sets a bottle of pills down on the table.

“I need to bring in Prescott. Get the job done. And I need to kill Diaz.”

“... Okay. And, uh... when... do you wanna head out? If you know where they are.”

“ _When_ I know, thanks to the job I gave you... I’ll leave as soon as I’m able.” He gives his leg a little jerk, and it sways in its makeshift cast. “Maybe a little sooner. I’ll need a vehicle too.”

Drew is skeptical, for good reason. “Why don’t you have one of our boys do it?” He holds up two hands in suggestion. “You’re in no shape for it.”

“I do this.” Soft, quiet, adamant tone.

There’s not much else to draw from that. Drew considers pushing a bit. “Wh- I mean, uh... why, exactly, do _you_ – just curious, is all. Why not just have someone else track them down? Someone who wasn’t, say... recently shot in the leg?” He cracks a grin to butter it out. Not sure if Vaas takes it lightly.

“Because, Drew... Nathan... concerns me.”

“Nathan concerns you?”

“Concerns me.”

“Okay... how does, uh – what – what does that mean?”

Vaas doesn’t turn his head. Eyes snap to Drew’s sharply. “Because I’m doing this myself.”

Yikes. Drew doesn’t press further. It’s wholly against sound reason, but he only has so much patience with Vaas. Patience, and courage. Let the crazy bastard do it himself. No skin off his cheek, right?

He decides to go visit someone. He misses her singing already. Maybe this would be a decent transition.

“Alright. You do you. Speaking of which, you... gonna be alright by yourself for a bit?” Stands up and stretches. “I gotta go say goodnight to the folks. Sounds like they’re wrapping up. I can leave you whatever you need here. Bathroom is–”

“I’ll be alright.” Vaas is still shirtless, leaning against the pillow. “But no, I need you to stay. We need to talk.”

Drew considers protesting. Flash of yellow and a soft melody floats through his mind. He wants to see her one last time before turning in. Doesn’t even know if she’s still outside.

“You can see her tomorrow, can’t you?” Vaas smiles, head tilting a bit. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you for one night apart.”

Drew’s fingers twitch and a chill sweeps his body. He’ll never get used to it. He’s seen it many times before. Vaas and his unhinged grasp on all that is unspoken. He’d never spoken to Vaas about the girl strumming strings outside. Not once.

“Ye- _hrrhm –_ yeah. Yes. I can.” Clears a dry throat. Fear. Sits back down. Vaas takes a deep breath.

“Get a pen. Something to write on.”

“Uh... shit, yeah – one sec...” Some rustling and bustling later, Drew’s seated across the table, eyes heavy.

“I want the payment allocated as follows.” Vaas speaks to the ceiling, fingertips together, perched on his belly. “Three million to my personal fund. I want one mil in cash, the rest – make a deposit... five hundred grand for you and your crew, you split that up... let’s see, two hundred grand for Marrakesh and Gupta, that’ll tide them over... how many cops do we have now?”

“Oof.” Drew shakes his head, scribbling away. “Couldn’t tell you off the top o’ my head. I’d have to check our server. But, I’ll say, between Washington and Missouri? Probably ‘round fifty.”

Vaas gives him a wide-eyed look. “Fucking fifty? All supervisory?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Hey, you said expand.”

“I did. Hmm... give yourself an extra hundred grand.” Waits for Drew to write it down, who’s a bit shocked at the moment. He snaps out of it.

“Right... so, that’s three point six... no wait, the judges, it’s three point eight... Jesus, it goes fast. How much does HRC owe us for Vesuvius?”

“They’re... paid up.” Drew begins scrawling ‘HRC’, but scratches it out. “All seven mil. They’re good.”

“Invest that into resupply. I want all our bases stocked up. Any residue, goes in the group fund. Give, uh – three mil for resupply, three for the prison crews, they deserve an extra something... and... save the rest for adjustments.”

“You got it.” Pen scratches and taps.

“Alright, back to... what was it – three point eight... alright, let’s pay out the cops. Fifty grand each. Should hold them for their terms. Two point five. Three point eight... six... point three. Leaves three point seven. I suppose the cartel wants their share.”

“If you still want to keep that going. We can always take them out.” Drew taps the notepad with his pen. “Always an option. Just say the word.”

Vaas shakes his head. “Not in this climate. Things are... out of balance, I need to sort it out before we move forward. And, we owe them for that coup at Guadalupe. Valkyries honor debts.”

“That... we do.” Another note. “What else?”

“We got more to split?” Vaas is surprised.

“Yeah, Sinaloa wanted an even two million for the job. Still leaves... one point seven mil.”

“One... point... seven...” Vaas is quiet for a bit. Eyes focused. And then his brows relax. He cracks another tiny smile.

“Buy your girlfriend that house she’s always wanted.”

“... What?”

He turns to lock eyes with Drew. “Rosaline, right? Oh, you call her Rose. That’s nice. Cute. Get her out of the whore business and put her up in a waterfront house. Plenty of nice spots on the Oregon coast, close by too.”

Drew drops his pen and leans back, rubbing his face with both hands. “I... fuck, I just – how do you fucking _know_ all that? I mean, did she –?”

Vaas shakes it away. “No one talks to me. No one has to. I know.”

“You _know?”_ Drew slaps his knees. “What, does that even mean?”

“It means what it means, Drew.” Vaas turns away again. And his eyes widen, and he gasps. “Oh! She... has a kid. A... a son. He looks like you.”

Drew scoffs. Mouth drying out again. “You’re fucking with me. Someone talked to you about her.”

Vaas faces him again. “Did she tell you the kid’s yours?” It’s rhetorical.

“Brock is not fuckin’ mine, Vaas. No way.”

“Condoms break, Drew. Congratulations, you’re a father. And she’s a saint for letting you believe you’re not, for – what – five? Six years? Jesus. She’s a keeper.”

“Stop.”

“Alright.”

This isn’t new. Drew is no stranger to this. He’s not alone in it, either. But it’s a different kind of beast when Vaas does it to you, directly. Something incredible, and horrifying. He gets to his feet.

“Anything else?” He needs a drink. He’s sick of Vaas already. He needs to talk to Rose.

“You knew Nathan Prescott in high school, right?”

“... Barely. Yeah.”

Vaas glares at him for a bit. He’s doing it again. “No... you were jealous of him. You... threw his... portfolio, his, uh – photography thing. You tossed it in the fountain. Wow, you really remember that.”

Drew inhales, sharp. “Okay, you need to _stop_ doing that. Alright? It’s fucking gross, I don’t like it. Stop. I mean it.”

Vaas laughs. Open, loud. First time. “Ah, that’s... not an option. Anyway, I just wanted to know what Nathan was like. Anything you can tell me about him?”

“Oh? I thought you know everything.” Drew’s considerably off balance at this point. He wants to get out.

“Nobody knows everything.”

“Okay.” He’s even more confused now. But he’s learned not to dodge a question when asked by Vaas. “Okay, uh – right. Prescott. Nathan, was, uh – erratic. On a lotta drugs all the time, always going off. Explains the whole Rachel Amber thing when that... came out... Jesus...”

He trails off. Vaas is waiting. Drew massages the bridge of his nose, eyes shut.

“Uh, yeah, that’s – pretty much all I know. He was an ass, whiny little bitch, his dad’s an even bigger ass, as you probably know.”

“Nothing about him and Rachel Amber?”

Drew crosses his arms. He really wants some air. Tries not to think about how Vaas would even know about Rachel. It’s far beyond anything he’s expected to know. But he suspends his disbelief. Vaas doesn’t count, when it comes to these assumptions.

“I – uh, I didn’t really... know Rachel much. I never saw her talking to Prescott, not that I... can recall. High school was – Jesus, it’s a while ago. How am I supposed to remember this shit?”

“I just want to know about him and Rachel Amber. That’s all.” Vaas smiles. “You know nothing about her?”

“No, I – she, uh – she got involved with... she and her friend, I – forget her name – they got involved with Damon Merrick. You won’t know him, small time, worked around Arcadia Bay for a while...”

“Damon Merrick.” Vaas repeats it, brows crossing again. “I know about him. Knew. He, uh... killed... by, some... Frank – something – Frank Bowers. I get that right?”

Drew’s hostility gives way to awe. “Yeah. You knew them?”

“No. Not personally. Holy shit, Drew. He _stabbed_ Rachel Amber?” Vaas stares directly at him. Another rhetorical. Drew says nothing. Vaas is staring beyond him, at something else entirely. Piecing together flashes of the past as he sees them. Drew can feel Vaas in his own head. Stroking his face. It’s horrific. Uncomfortable. An itch he can’t possibly scratch.

“And... her friend... Rachel... Amber... you... lied.” His face softens. He’s just come across something new. The longer he does it, the clearer things get. Like dusting cobwebs in a tunnel. “You know her name. I can see it. It’s Chloe Price. Isn’t it? The girl Nathan killed. Part of why he was in the hole. Right?”

Drew looks defeated. He’s tired of this. Sick of Vaas’s games. “Are you asking, or telling, Vaas?”

Another crackled, crooked grin. “Why not both? Goddamn, it all comes together! Funny, isn’t it? It’s fascinating to me, is all. The paths we take.”

Drew’s just waiting for permission to leave. “Yeah. Yeah. Paths we take. I need some air. I’ll, uh – send someone to check on you later.”

Vaas is elated. The high he gets from this – nothing like it. Putting the strings together. Knowing, better than anyone could, how small the world is. He’s in a good mood. He lets Drew go.

“Goodnight, Drew.”

“Night.”

The door clicks into place behind him, and the trailer is quiet. A cracked-open window lets in the sparse tumble of speeding wheels from the road beyond the camp. Steady flow of cold air. Smell of dirt and ash. Chatter growing quieter every minute. In here, it’s warm. Yellow lights wash the aged furniture. Notes and photographs pinned on boards. A few faded posters of football players. A few hand-sketched portraits of Drew, and a younger man who looks like him. Vaas knows he can piece together who that is, given time – but he’s no longer in the mood. Isolation snuffed that tiny flame of joy like a trained fighter’s heel striking the wick of a lit candle. He’s empty again.

The driver’s seat hidden behind a desk, laptop open and fast asleep. He wishes they’d shut the fuck up outside. Pin-drop silence is a rare treasure.

His eyes travel to his leg, trussed up like a sausage held out to dry. He hates it. He wants to walk out of here now. Find them both. Sean’s one-eyed face is sharper in his mind than he wants it to be. Bested by a factor he hadn’t foreseen. How? It’s virtually impossible. Every string, every motion of reality, belongs to him. He reassures himself. It was just a mistake. Human error.

_If Larry wants it, Larry keeps it, Nathan._

“Sorry.”

He speaks to no one. Not even to himself. His face twists into a horrific grimace, and he tries, and he heaves, and he tries some more, to wrench out any sliver, any inkling of expressed pain, of the tumult within him that grows more unmanageable by the passing minute – but his eyes are dry, his chest cold and empty. He stays on his back, heaving and retching, trying more than ever before to push out any semblance of grief, any sign that he could feel, and show it.

Dry. Desperation wells up within him, heaving chest growing more furious. He burns daggers in the roof of the trailer, teeth gritted, and his right arm balls into a fist.

He punches himself. In his side. Grunts. Hits his ribs, again. Again. Again. Harder – harder still. Bony fist smacks cold skin with resounding thumps, and he screams from it, knowing he doesn’t need to. He chooses to. This must be what feeling itself, must feel like. To scream, to cry out. To do anything at all, anything that isn’t all that he is.

“Hnng! _Hnng! UGH!”_

Punches and grunts do nothing to break him. Swings his leg out of the loop and slams it, calf-first, onto the leather. Pain shoots up again, fresh blood rears its red face – and yet, they do nothing to push out what he’s looking for.

He gives up. Panting, like a dog. Hands in his wispy grey hair. And fury takes over once more, and Larry’s bullet-riddled corpse tumbling down metal steps is an image he plays in his mind with rhythmic obsession. Needless. Needless.

“I’m so... I’m sorry.”

It’s quieter outside, and no one hears him moan and whine in some kind of abstract pain he can’t even discern. It’s far beyond his leg, or whatever he does to himself. He grabs the gun Drew gave him and holds it to his forehead with both hands, presses the hammer in with all his might, denting skin, hurting bone. Trigger finger in place, barrel pointed up and behind him. Eyes shut now. His breathing erratic, he just stays where he is, looking into darkness, sweating, mumbling the same words into the dense silence, as night falls.

“Sorry... soh... Lar... I’m... I... I’m sor... sorry...”

*

_“Eh, this is Bravo Unit – got a Ten Thirty-Four on Emerson and Thirty-First Avenue. Requesting Ten-Thirty Four backup, Bravo Unit, Emerson and Thirty-First.”_

“Ten-Four Bravo, Panther patrol on route, six minutes.” Ray checks the straps on his elbow pads. Tight. Kneeling in a van with eight others. Bumpy road – they bounce, facing each other. Gripping their gear. Helmets down over tense faces.

“Freyja, you copy?” He speaks into his earpiece.

_“Roger that. Patrol’s out.”_

“Okay.” He lifts up his visor to meet his team in the eyes. “Shane, Jiva – you’re with me on gas. Laura – you’re heading rear Echelon One when we group up with Freyja, yeah? Hannes, Echelon Two, same deal – do _not_ engage the crowd. We’re backup and arrest only. Got it?”

“What if they throw shit at us?” One of them mumbles, head down, both hands clasped over his knees.

“You got a fuckin’ helmet, Shane.” Ray crunches into his vest, leaning forward, to yank out his phone from unseen depths in his pockets. Checks messages. Maoro.

_Incident this morning you might be interested in. Call asap._

Not now. Ray types out a quick reply with one finger. Phone-friendly gloves are still clunky, especially at the tip of the thumb.

_At the demonstration. Riot support. ccall late.r looks badGH4 &_

A particularly heavy road bump; the crew bounces hard. Some heads hit the ceiling, Ray’s included. Luckily, they have fucking helmets. Ray sends out a correction before jamming the phone back in.

_*Looks bad._

The van turns a corner. No windows at the back, but they hear it. Roaring. Shattering glass. Metal on metal, banging, denting. Screams of pain, of joy – rage. Thundering feet. Someone’s voice bellowing over it on a mic. Indecipherable.

“Jesus.” Shane looks over his shoulder at the reinforced wall. “You hear that? The fuck ever happened to – like – peaceful protesting?”

The van starts to slow down. They’ll group up soon. Ray feels better knowing he’ll see Freyja behind shields.

“These people stopped being peaceful after that ash-falling-from-the-sky shit.” Someone on Ray’s side of the van chips in, testing the slide speed on her forestock, giant round chambers swung open, laid bare. Ray gives the hefty weapon a glance. Foam rounds. Riot control. There will be bruises today. Especially with a crowd like this.

He’d rather not.

But backup is backup. Ramsey’s call. At least they won’t be on the front line.

“Yeah, and that northern lights bullshit last night? Bet you ten bucks that pushed ‘em over the edge.”

“Does anyone actually know... what they want?”

“It’s some cult nonsense. Biblical. Apocalypse garbage. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“But they’re so many... see the red paint on ‘em? Freaks me out.”

“Yeah, we don’t see this many out on some Nostradamus bullshit. Usually just one or two crackheads who do that–”

“Focus up.” Ray brings his visor down. “We’re in the red.”

They’re quiet again. The crowd outside the van is louder still. Ray catches a glimpse of the driver’s windshield. People. A hundred of them. Young faces, painted red. Manic. Swarming the van. Surrounding it. It’s getting slower.

And it stops, dead.

The driver turns to look at the crew. His face unnervingly casual, since the van seems to be shaking on spot.

“Looks like we’ll be here a while. They’re climbing on us.” 

_*Looks bad._

Maoro decides not to bother him. The urge to leave a “good luck, don’t die” is a bit strong. He pockets the phone.

“No word?” Miriam ducks under yellow tape, zipping up her jacket. Five police cars. Two ambulances, one rolling out – one being loaded. A firetruck. First responders. Low wet fog clogging their feet.

“He’s busy.” Maoro walks up to meet her, hands in pockets. Fingertips numb from texting in the chilly wind. “Riots up west.”

Miriam cups her elbows, arms wrapped close. It’s a lot colder, a lot faster. Strange. And not even close to the most bizarre things these days. “He’ll want to know about this, asap. Have you told Maxine?”

He takes a deep breath, hands on his hip, trench coat hanging open. “Not yet. Not sure she’d want to be involved, uh... you know – she just got out of the hospital yesterday, it’s all been... hard, you know? Stressful. You know what she’s like.”

Her eyebrow shoots up. “What she’s like? She’s one of the strongest people I know. _And_ this concerns her – directly. Sir.”

Her tone got a bit too sharp for her liking. She averts her eyes, just as he gives her a sideways smirk.

“We don’t know that for sure. And since when do you call me ‘sir’?”

“Forget it.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Two helicopters circle the intersection above them. Brief glimpses of dark birdlike shapes in the clouds, and the telltale beat of whirring blades come and go. Small crowds are already trying to sneak past the barricades. Maoro glares at a young woman with fading highlights in her hair; slipped past security, now in the open intersection next to the chaos. She stops in her tracks, glaring back.

“How’s the scene?” He’s still looking at the trespasser. None of the crowd control officers seem to notice her. She’s fixated on him though. And he, on her. Angry eyes.

“Messy.” Miriam’s going through photographs in her tablet. “Here, see – fire damage in the truck – the crash broke through a hydrant, _and_ exposed the – uh, the wiring in the store’s panels. So it’s not... traversable in there yet. We’ll need gear.”

“Send for it. Use my code.”

An officer runs past the nearest ambulance, holding a small box. Halts by Maoro, panting.

“Got it?”

“Yeah.” The man unlocks the case – it’s a tiny laptop. He types in a password and navigates to a file.

“The office said they’ll provide the full recording of the day too, if you need it.” Hands Maoro the box. Miriam peeks over his shoulder. The officer walks around too. He wants to see it just as much as they do.

Looks like surveillance cam footage. The same grainy, low-fidelity, 10-frames-per-second bullshit that no technology is capable of addressing, apparently. It’s the same intersection they’re standing on. Traffic stop camera.

Miriam checks the date on the screen, to be sure – October 16th. Today. The time – twenty minutes ago. She holds her breath.

Cars fly by at the cursed frame rate. People on the sidewalk, waiting to cross. Seemingly normal. But eyewitness accounts testify – across the board – that what took place here was anything but. She’d been speaking to them for a while now. Still refuses to believe it, to a degree.

There, it appears. Logically impossible. A person – a woman, it looks like – not too tall – appears in the middle of the road. She did not run in from the sidewalk. She did not fall out of the sky. She didn’t even climb out of a pothole. She isn’t, and then she is. Willed into existence between frames. Her face is unintelligible, but people on the side of the road seem to have noticed it. They’re pointing. Restless. Some are moving away.

“... the fuck...”

Maoro lets it slip; they’re all thinking it. The woman seems to look around for a second – confused – but has no time to move. The truck flies into frame. She’s a deer in headlights, staring it down. Breaks. Crashes into her with a swerve to the right. She goes flying – truck smashes through a store. The end.

Maoro plays it back again. And again. The specific moment when she pops into existence – it’s virtually seamless. The frame rate doesn’t help. Without a word, they watch the clock ticking – not a second out of place, when the woman appears. No footage tampered with.

“... Oh... kay... Alright.” Dry mouth. He gulps. Shuts the case – can’t keep watching it – and hands the case to Miriam. “Log this in the lab. Cloud copies. Send it to... Ray... and Ramsey. And – Aaklya too. Alright?”

“Yeah.” Miriam takes the case, blinking out the irrational. Deep breaths now. It’s just low-fidelity footage. Could’ve been anything.

“I can…” She perks up her eyes to meet his. He’s a bit more shaken. “Yes?”

“I can ask around the crowd to see if anyone… got it on their phone.”

Maoro scowls. “Why would anyone be filming at a random intersection?”

“Some people do street vlogs.”

“Really? In Seattle? What’s to vlog, it’s just wet.” He gives the crowd a sweeping glance. Some of them have already lost interest. The trespasser is gone. Vanished as seamlessly as the woman in the footage had appeared. He’s beginning to sway under the weight of it all.

“You alright?” She puts a hand on his arm. “You don’t… look well.”

“I’m good.” He tries a smile. Doesn’t work. Feels off, he knows it looks off too. “Just, uh… send for the equipment we need, and get the team together, I need to talk to… Ramsey…”

He fiddles with his phone. Fingers slipping. She tears her eyes off him. No time for concern just yet; that’s for after nine o’ clock.

*

Dark room.

That’s all Sean could infer. It’s a basement. Vast and sprawling, no furniture down here. Just beams, pipes and plastic boxes stacked high in one corner, stuffed to the brim with things he can’t discern. No lights on, but four strong strips of moonlight blaze across the floor from the barred window near the ceiling. He can see spikes of grass through it. Smell the night air. See a bit of the sky too, from his angle, sitting on the floor, one hand handcuffed to a pipe.

Nathan’s here too, presumably. He’s not sure. Probably in another room. He doesn’t try calling out. They’re right above. Any sounds and who knows what these people might do.

Staring down a crossbow isn’t something he’s keen on trying again. They took the gun off him, too – not that he had any intention of using it. The bag of clothes, the money – all gone. Held at gunpoint – bow-point, really – he and Nathan were brought here. About a twenty minute drive in the stranger’s van, from the spot where he found them. He remembers only forest, looking out the window. It’s a villa of some sort. Hidden in the trees off the road. Nathan couldn’t have resisted those circumstances if he’d tried. Sean chose peace. He knows he’s not on some crime spree. This won’t be like last time.

The handcuffs are cutting into his wrist. He sits up against the wall; doesn’t let his arm hang so much.

“One prison for another.”

Surprised at his own nonchalance. There’s enough fury in him to burn the forest down, but no valve for its release. Had he really welded himself shut, all those years behind bars? The most chaotic of possible developments, and yet – here he is, as steady as the cold wall he rests his back on.

“Daniel.”

Saying the name roots him to the ground. Through this abundance of misfortune, through the sheer chaos of what took place in the last two days – the name keeps him steady, a reminder of what it means to survive. A reminder of why he’s here, and why he hadn’t simply returned to his cell when the riots began. The mission is at hand, and must be set in stone.

“Talking to myself.”

That he is. Astute observation. It’s deadly quiet. The forest outside, too. He assumes it’s a good few acres of cleared land, where the villa sits. The fauna’s nighttime cacophony is distant. A steady hum of central heating drowns it out.

The sky’s been bizarre for the last few minutes. He didn’t believe his eyes when he first saw it. The moonlight began to shift and dance a little, like an oil spill on water. Only when he peeked through the window did he see the sky – dark mere minutes prior – ablaze with waving pillars of green light. Green, and purple, and some red. Aurora borealis. He knows what it is, but never in his life did he think he’d see it. Not even supposed to happen this far from the north. What’s that about? Global warming? Seems counterintuitive… or maybe it isn’t.

Louder noise, still – a violent _clang_ snaps his gaze away from the moonlight on the floor, to the stairs leading up, across the basement from him. A door’s been opened. A pair of legs descend, breaking a fresh wash of golden light from the room above. Someone’s coming.

Sean can’t see his face, as he walks toward him. But the gait is familiar. Same man who caught them. His face only comes into view when he’s unnervingly close, as the man comes to squat next to Sean on the floor, an old wrinkled mug and crinkly moustache lit by a strip of moon. He grins.

“Comfortable, are we?”

Sean says nothing. Owes him nothing. But if he doesn’t get out of here soon, he might have to consider options. Of which, he sees none, to be fair. Mild flair of panic – he bites it down.

“You’re a lot quieter than your friend out there.”

Out? Nathan’s outside? What, in a shed? What are they doing with him? Is he alive? Why are they even here? Who is this man?

No questions voiced. Sean remains an impassive rock.

“Is he on, some, uh… some meds?” The man makes swirly motions around his head with his hands, cocking an eyebrow. “He seems kind of retarded. I dunno, maybe you both are. Which is better for me.”

He waits for Sean to probe him. Nothing comes out. The man’s getting a little impatient, he can tell.

“Look, I’m not here to waste time, so let’s… cut to the chase.” He stands up now, looking down at his prisoner. Sean’s face is in darkness.

“You’ve had… the worst stroke of luck of any two men in history, I’m willing to wager.” The man chuckles. “Now I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re prison escapees, probably from that… big riot down in Oregon State, am I – am I in the ballpark here, friend?” Hands on his hips, shit-eating grin on his face. Of course, Sean says nothing.

“See now, we could hand you over to the police and all, but where’s the profit margin in that?” He squats down again. Sean’s curious. Does he plan to do squats up and down the whole time? The man’s bouncing on his feet, eye-level with Sean.

“Point is, your lives are finished and I’m – we, are about to make some real money. I can’t pass up a couple of healthy folk like you, with nowhere to go but down. You get what I’m saying?”

The word ‘healthy’ makes his skin crawl. Is this a trafficker? Of what, organs? Sean shifts on his spot on the floor, sitting up straighter. The panic is harder to bite down. The man sees it. Laughs.

“There it is! I knew he wasn’t all strong n’ silent. That got ya, didn’t it?”

Sean doesn’t know his fists are balled up. Fingernails digging into his palms.

“But hey, hey, I’m not a… an unjust man.” He stands up again. Walks around him. “I – whenever I do get some folk, I always offer them a choice. I can either sell them, or… they can buy their freedom.”

He’s looking at Sean to see if he gets it. He doesn’t, really.

“What I mean, is, you – if you give me the same amount of money I’d get off you – you and your friend, respectively – I’ll let you go free.” He claps his hands together, amazed at his own proposal. “What do you say? Shall we talk price?”

The man must be toying with him. He knows these two are inmates. Where would they have any money at all?

“You obviously don’t have any cash to your name, uh – no offence – but maybe you’ve got some, uh… family members who… have some nest eggs… no?” He looks concerned, nodding at Sean with sincere inquisitiveness. A good kick in the mouth. That should do it. But the bigger issue at hand is what gets him to break his silence.

“I’ve seen your face. We both have. You want me to believe you’ll let us walk free if we pay you?”

“Oh, sure.” The man smiles wider. “I know you’re on the run, who are you gonna tell?”

“Maybe I care more about some things than others.” Sean has no idea why he’s saying this. Maybe it’s the hopelessness of it all. The idea that he might never get out of here. Never make it to Arcadia Bay. Never save his brother from whatever hell’s gotten hold of him. Or maybe it’s the audacity of this motherfucker in front of him, a man claiming to be the horrific thing that he is.

“Maybe I’d go back to jail if it meant you came with me.” Sean’s even quieter than his captor when he speaks. “So maybe you should put me down now if you know what’s good for you.”

A doorbell.

A doorbell? From upstairs. Yes. Someone at the door. Who’s at the door? Out here?

The man’s about to retort. Grinning still, he steps away from Sean, eyes still on him, and bleeds into blackness, his frame silhouetted against the stairway light. Through the shadows, he speaks to him one last time.

“S’real crazy these days, friend. Ashes falling. Sky on fire. Anything can happen. World’s ending.”

Walks up the steps and shuts the door, cutting away the refreshing gold wash, throwing him in total darkness again.

Sean’s breathing heavy. Three times, he wrenches his arm on the pipe, trying to break the cuffs, the pipe, even pull his hand out – anything, really. He knows none of them work. The pipe breaking off is his best bet, but it’s big, and old, and heavy. No chance.

Should he break his hand? Crush it, drag it through the cuff? It’s an option. He ponders how much it’ll hurt. Ponders how he’d even do it effectively. How does one break their own hand, in just the right way to fit it through a handcuff, on purpose? Would it even work?

It probably wouldn’t work. He’s looking at it. It wouldn’t work. Not worth trying. But if all else failed…

Another clang. The door opens again. He jerks upward, to his feet now. Not sure what he’ll do but he won’t be sitting any more. He’s panicking. And angry. Waits for the same faded jeans and chubby legs to make their way down the steps again.

But they don’t.

“Sean?”

A woman’s voice. What? A young woman. At the top of the stairs. A pair of much smaller legs makes an appearance on the steps.

“Sean Diaz? Are you down here? I’m here to help. I’m not with them.”

He sees her fiddle with a switch on the wall. And his eyes are blinded – the basement floods with light. In the few seconds he can’t see, he hears feet coming down the steps.

“Sean!”

He strains to open his eyes and jerks back, as far back as he can with the handcuffs. Back pinned against a wall. The woman, coming across the basement, stops. Both hands up. He scans her thoroughly. Short. Skinny. Shoulder-length hair. A strange assortment of clothes – like she shopped at a thrift store, and found nothing that matched. Glasses on her face, askew.

“I’m a friend. It’s okay.”

“No you’re not.”

She clicks her tongue, annoyed. “You got captured by these assholes in the forest, right? You were with Nathan. I’m not with them.”

Terror. And curiosity. A turbulent mix of both.

“Who are you?” Sean’s throat is parched. “How – _hrrm –_ how’d you know all that?”

“I’m Max.” She smiles. “I’m… a friend of Nathan’s.”

“Max?” His brows cross. Sounds familiar. Nathan… Max… he’d mentioned a Max. He remembers.

“Caulfield?”

She blinks, brows raised. “Did… Nathan talk about me?”

“You’re gonna tell me how you know all that shit about us. Were you following us?”

She shrugs. Laughs a little, pushing up her glasses. “It’s… a little hard to explain. But – look!” She holds up a tiny key. “I can get you out of those cuffs. If you’ll let me, that is!”

Her vibe is really off. She’s just a bit too light-hearted here. She’s smiling. Big, fat smile. Big doe eyes. How’d she get the key from that piece of shit?

“How- how’d you get the key?”

“I took it.” She clicks her tongue again, slapping her thighs. “Do you want me to help or not? Nathan’s trapped outside, we need to go save him too.”

He’s quite literally cornered. And she seems completely harmless – which is the most unnerving thing about her. He can’t possibly discern her arrival. Not in a million years. He nods.

She walks the rest of the way and unlocks the cuffs. They clatter to the floor and he rubs his wrist. Very sore. He picks up the cuffs and snatches the key from her hand. Pockets them both.

“You… planning on making an arrest?” she asks with another little laugh.

“Might need them later.” He takes another good look at her. She looks to be his age – maybe a bit younger. Or older. Honestly hard to tell.

“Max Caulfield.”

“Sean Diaz.” She laughs again. “Nice to meet you. Now, let’s go, please – before someone else shows up.”

They walk up the steps of the basement. Sean lunges for his gun before remembering it had been taken. Max notices, a few steps above him.

“Oh! Right. Forgot. Here you go.” And she reaches into her jacket – a bit too big for her, really – and pulls out the same weapon he’d used to shoot Vaas in the leg. The same gun the trafficker had taken from him hours earlier. She’s holding it by the barrel. He takes it, points it away from her.

“How the fuck–?”

“I took it.” She smiles again. “Let’s go. Nobody’s here. It’s safe.”

He follows, like he’s in a trance. Follows this woman he’s never met. He steps into the dining room, where he’d been walked through earlier to be handcuffed down below, and stops in his tracks.

Blood.

His captor’s corpse sprawled on the floor, dining chairs upturned, table on its side. Face down, in a pool of his own blood. And it’s growing still. Creeping toward the basement steps. Sean grips the gun. He has no choice but to step in it. And so he does, coming up.

“What the fuck happened here?” He really needs a proper answer now. She probably notices that in his voice, so she gives him one.

“I killed them.” She shrugs a little, pointing at the sink. His eyes follow her finger. A large, bloody knife is sitting there, waiting to be scrubbed with the rest of the dirty dishes. He needs a glass of water.

“Y-you… _killed…_ the-them, what do you mean, them? Who else?” He’s trying to keep his voice steady. Not sure if it’s working. She doesn’t seem to mind regardless. Her presence is almost otherworldly.

“This guy, and… I think… two of his friends? Or brothers? I’m not sure. They’re in the living room. If you… wanna see.” She pulls in her lips and raises her brows, head cocked. “But otherwise… let’s go get Nathan. Okay?”

He glares at her, heart racing. Only now does he notice the dark spots on a dark jacket – blood on her. And her nose is bleeding too – did they hit her? Probably. She wipes it off as soon as he sees.

“Come on.”

Sean staggers through the mess, through the house, keeping her in sight. He’s not threatened by her, though he has every reason to be. Worst case, he has a firearm. Then again, she might too. He quickly checks the magazine – still a few rounds in it. They’ll have to do. She probably heard him check, though.

They pass a hall and walk through the living room. It’s dark here, but the white carpet’s thick with blood, and two bodies are splayed across the couches. Two fairly large men, larger than her for certain – arms and legs spread out, slouched over their own bellies, almost comical. Sean gives them a glance.

Throats slit.

He grips his gun tighter still. Keeping an eye on the back of Max’s head as she walks, checking behind her to make sure he follows.

“I think it’s… the backyard… this way.” She points down the hall to her left. Sean’s only following now. Bites down the barrage of questions. He doesn’t have the stomach to ask any. He does, however, see a sliding door at the end of the hall, leading out into open grass.

Fresh air never smelled this good. They both look up for a moment, at the spectacle. But Max wastes no further time. She breaks into a jog, running for the shed across the yard.

It’s a large property, but not immense. Sean looks over the house. It’s fairly large. Only three people here? Is she certain? What even is she?

“Here. It’s – can you grab the other end – Sean?” She’s fiddling with a beam, barring the door. He lifts it out with both hands, pushing her aside. It’s dropped to the side and the door kicked open, and a resolute “What the FUCK!” shoots out from the darkened shed.

Nathan’s handcuffed to a radiator, same way he was. Max searches for a light switch while Sean steps inside.

“Diaz? That you?” Nathan’s scrambling to his feet too, just like he did. “How’d you get out? Who’s that?”

“You find that light switch?” Sean asks her, ignoring him. He needs to find the right key.

“Is the light on?” She bounces around the small room, running her hands up the walls. “God, it’s dark in here…”

Nathan freezes when she speaks. He knows her voice. “Hey… hey… wait…”

Sean’s fiddling with the keys, trying to see which one fits the cuffs.

“… Sean… Diaz… hey…”

“What?” He tries another. Doesn’t work. How did she get it on the first try?

“Got it!” Max flicks on a dingy yellow lamp in the middle of the room, relieving their eyes. And they all see each other, clear as day.

Nathan backs into the radiator. “M-Max!?”

“I know, it’s…” She laughs again, both hands held up in surrender. “I’ll explain – sort of. But just relax, okay?”

He looks at Sean in horror, and Sean doesn’t meet those eyes. He has no answers. He’s just as dumbfounded. If anything, Nathan should be more in the know – he did mention her before.

“Isn’t she your friend?” he mumbles, finally getting the right key. The cuffs clang to the floor and he rubs his wrist.

“She’s – what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

His breathing is a lot more erratic. Sean takes note of his hands. He keeps clamping them up, unfurling them. Nathan’s not stable. Sean’s not certain if he took regular meds at prison, but if he did… he’s off them now.

“Nathan. Come outside. Both of you. Let’s get some air. Okay?” She leads them out, waiting in the grass. They look at each other, flummoxed. Sean leads. Nathan follows.

“Care to explain now?” He demands once they’re out under the lights. Nathan gives them a long, hard look.

“I… came here to get you guys out of here.” She reaches into her jacker again, and pulls out another ring of keys. “Here. Take it.”

Stuffs it into Sean’s hand. “What – what is this?”

“It’s the keys to the whole property, I think.” She laughs again. “Look, nobody’s gonna be here until six in the morning. It’s about nine thirty right now. You two have time but you need to clear out before six. Go in the house, take whatever you need, food – money – whatever. And, uh – if you touched anything – wipe down your fingerprints. In the shed, and the… basement.”

“Wipe – how do you know who’s coming at six!?” Sean’s list of ‘how’ questions could take all night at this point, but he decides to lead with that.

“You will… also need this.” She reaches yet again into her jacket – he knows why it’s so big now. It’s a folded piece of paper. He unwraps it.

A map. With a hand-drawn circle, and a line tracing a path. A map of the west coast. Sean squints to see the tiny town circled on it:

_Arcadia Bay_

They both look up at her, from the map, confounded beyond measure. Nathan’s at a loss for words – mostly because Sean’s there to do the talking.

“You’re headed there, right? This is the quickest way there from here. Also – they have a garage? Down that way? You might find a car or something. You’ll have to hotwire it though. I’m not sure if you still can at this point… maybe it’s too high tech already…” She trails off. And her gaze is lifted again to the northern lights above. Sean feels a twinge of annoyance above everything else.

“Max!”

“Right! Sorry. Anyway – one last thing I need to give you. Last one, I promise.”

She steps forward and hands them both something small and square. They both take a look. Under the bright night, it’s fairly legible. A pair polaroid photographs.

“Please, please don’t lose them. It’ll help me find you guys if I ever need to again. I know that doesn’t make sense, just – don’t lose the photos. Keep them on you, no matter what.”

Sean’s beyond patience at this point. He’s also been at a loss for words since he saw the bodies inside. He merely holds it, and glares at her, demanding answers to questions he can’t even formulate.

“Okay. We’re set. Remember – get out of here before six. Don’t let anyone see you. And make it there safe.”

She begins to walk away.

“Are you – HEY!”

Nathan steps forward. She turns – it’s not a smile, but it’s close. Sean sees something akin to pity in her eyes, though he can’t fathom why.

“What – the _fuck_ – is going on, Max? Why are you even here? How’d you _get here!?_ What’s with these – photos!? _”_

But she answers none of them. “You need to watch your backs. I need you safe and sound when you get to Arcadia Bay. I can’t always come to save you. Okay?” 

_“Okay!?”_ He parrots it back, arms splayed in fury. “You are making _zero fucking sense_ -”

But he’s cut short. He sees it, and Sean does too. Max turns on her heel, both hands in her pockets, and she takes a step forward, and vanishes from the earth. Consumed by the air itself, like an invisible door closing behind her – her form slides out of view, out in the open field with nowhere to go or hide, under this brazen sky that leaves no blade of grass in shadow. Clear as day. She walks into abyss, and is there no more.


End file.
